The Black Sea
by pensandvinyl
Summary: "You forgot, didn't you? The big Two-Eight." Emma hadn't forgotten … she just didn't see the point, really. With no milestones to mark, twenty-eight didn't even mean anything. A sequel to Argo Navis.
1. Chapter 1

So I found a bunch of old files in my google docs and figured I'd post them because why not. They're old and they're not even the *newest* drafts (I had to switch out the names of Emma and Neal's friends - I think I caught them all, but just in case Saffron = Effie, Hattie = Joy, and Lucas = Leo), those were about two computers ago, but the chapters that I'm gonna post are relatively complete and I think they give a good scope of what the story was going to be. This *part* of the series is finished, at least. Beyond that, anything that wasn't can probably be filled in with a few drabbles. I'm not planning on writing anything new and I'm not gonna stress too much about editing, but there were parts of this that I'm really proud of and just never got around to posting for a variety of reasons. Hopefully there's something to be enjoyed here, though, and thanks if you decide to read on!

* * *

A racket had erupted suddenly from Porter's room, springing up in the form of clinks and clanks and bangs that surpassed the sounds of his usual imaginative play, forcing Emma to abandon her careful study of sixteen-year-old Wyatt Pierson's case to investigate, half-fearing that she would find another dog (or something as equally troublesome), desperately trying to escape her son's latest attempt to rescue all the strays of the world. But whatever she had anticipated, it certainly didn't involve the needless mess that had taken over Porter's room, transforming it from something relatively tidy (if a bit cluttered), and into a complete pigsty.

And the mess continued to grow, right before her eyes, as Porter kneeled at the foot of his overstuffed closet, pulling things out and then chucking them needlessly across the room, rinse and repeat.

After dodging a stray shoe that landed perilously in the hallway behind her, Emma crossed her arms and pointedly cleared her throat, earning Porter's attentions, his head peeking out from behind the door to his closet, his hair sticking up in nearly every direction, reminding her wholly of Neal during that very first year together.

"Mom," he said, managing the odd combination of both frantic and relieved. "I need my sleeping bag. We still have it don't we?"

Emma raised a brow. Did he really expect her to ignore that his room looked like a tornado had passed through it?

"Why do you need a sleeping bag?" she asked instead, stepping inside the door and _just_ avoiding a Tonka truck.

" _Mom_ , I _need_ my sleeping bag," he repeated his voice reaching a rare octave that made it sound like a matter of life and death.

Emma didn't budge, however, staring him down, calm and stern (and, maybe, a bit amused) as Porter bounced on the balls of his feet impatiently, his limbs a suppressed spring waiting for someone to lift the repressive force.

"Brian's birthday is this weekend," he relented, finally, "and he's having a sleepover. So I _need_ my sleeping bag."

"Well, did you check that mess that formerly passed as your bed," she asked, critical eyes landing on pile after pile of clothes and shoes and toys.

"Yes." The duh, loud and clear, came implied and Emma rolled her eyes as she tip-toed her way carefully across the toy loitered floor, biting her lip when she dodged a Bob-it, but got the wrong end of a GI Joe action figure, just managing to suppress the frustrated cuss word that threatened to escape her mouth as her barefoot stepped on hard plastic. She gave Porter a pointed look when she reached the closet, arm reaching for the top shelf, feeling around a bit before she triumphantly pulled down his sleeping bag. But instead of the giant, bouncing hug of gratitude and relief she typically received whenever she recovered something Porter or Carina had lost-slash-misplaced, that suppressed energy merely went nowhere as Porter deflated. And when she tried to pass him the brightly colored bag, covered in Buzz Lightyear's giant face, he didn't even move to take it.

"That's it?" he asked, looking from the bag to his mother with disappointed eyes, as if magically expecting her to produce something else.

"Yes," said Emma simply, "A nice memento from your father's camping fiasco five years ago."

"I can't use that," he insisted.

Emma stared at him blankly before giving the bag a good sniff. But other than a faint musty smell mixed with pine she didn't find anything that a good airing out couldn't fix.

"You can," said Emma, shoving the thing at him, but he didn't bite.

"This is Brian Hansley's _tenth_ birthday party," Porter insisted.

(She supposed that should mean something to her.)

"Well, then," she said, thrusting it at him once because she really didn't want to go out and buy yet another thing that would probably only get used once. _At best._ "Here."

"And my _first_ sleepover."

Emma picked at the fabric. "Yes, and are you sure you're ready for that?"

He hadn't even gotten on the bus when the Eagle Scouts camping trip, turning around and running tearfully into her arms.

(Then again, he'd been seven.)

"No," he said dramatically, "because I have baby's sleeping bag with Buzz Lightyear's stupid face plastered all over it."

"You _begged_ me for this," she insisted, before turning on her best impression of her former five year old. "Please, Mommy, please. _Please_ can we get Buzz Lightyear." She pumped her fist mockingly. "Forever and _always."_

Porter rolled his eyes. "Infinity and Beyond."

"Whatever," she pointed at the bag, "you begged me and then you only used it once."

Though, admittedly, she could just as easily take the blame for that one. Emma, after a half of an attempt, adamantly refused to do the whole camping, sleeping on the ground _thing._

"Mom," he said, calming slightly and turning on the Neal Cassidy patented puppy dog eyes that never failed to make her cave like a house of cards. "Please don't make me be the only kid at Brian Hansley's party with a little kid sleeping bag."

"You still have Spiderman bedsheets," she pointed out, practically.

(Or at least he would if his bed hadn't turned into an alternative plane for lost toys.)

" _Superman,"_ he corrected, clearly growing annoyed with her lack of any relevant pop culture trivia. "And my friends aren't going to see my sheets."

"Well, how could they?" Emma agreed and, really, she had mostly settled into teasing him now (though, privately, she began to fear those inevitable teen years that looked like they might even be on the verge of arriving early). "Have you looked at this mess?"

Porter seemed to catch on that she had begun to cave, his tone shifting to something far more pleasant and certainly less whiny. "Mom, can I please have a new sleeping bag?"

"Yes," said Emma drily, "you can have a new sleeping bag."

"Thank –"

" _But_ you have to clean this mess up first."

(Firm parenting, Emma. Way to go.)

Porter nodded enthusiastically and finally she got that energetic hug. "Thank you!"

Emma made her way carefully out of his room, leaving another playfully firm, "Clean this up," behind her before, almost immediately, bumping into Carina in the hallway.

"My room's clean," said Carina proudly.

Emma gave her an indulgent smile, moving toward the kitchen, loudly saying, "Then you can get a snack."

Triumphantly, she heard Porter groan with disappointment from behind them.

"Cheese and crackers?" Emma asked and Carina nodded, climbing up onto a stool, peering over the island at her as Emma pulled out plate, knife, and crackers before retrieving the cheese from the fridge.

"I'm having a sleepover this weekend too," said Carina, her voice very matter of fact _like_ , "at Susan's."

Emma raised a brow at her daughter, hands fiddling with the wrapper on the cheddar cheese. "Are you now?"

Carina gave a big nod. "Me and Susan decided."

"And did you and Susan ask Susan's mom or dad for permission?" Carina's silence served as answer enough and Emma began slicing the block of cheese. "Well, we best ask them then."

This had become a sort of pattern as of late – Carina attempting to emulate Porter, desperately trying to do things as well as him and at the exact same time. Carina adored him, really, looking at Porter like anyone else would their hero. Emma and Neal found it positively charming, but Porter had grown increasingly annoyed by it, particularly when it involved Carina's attempt to weasel her way into soccer practice and video games with his friends. And while Emma worried that she took copying Porter just a bit too seriously (wondering even if, maybe, she should try discussing it with her), Carina had, at least made her own plans, instead of trying to latch onto Port's.

And, well, she just looked _so_ excited.

A good hour later, with snacks had (Porter too), Porter's room still a mess and Susan's mother insisting that a sleepover would be just fine, Emma bundled her children into their oversized SUV, getting yet another verbal acknowledgement from her son that he _would_ clean his room when they got home (though honestly Emma doubted she'd see the bottom of his floor anytime _before_ Brian Hansley's birthday sleepover), while Porter shared another neglected detail with her.

"Remember," Porter said, "We have to get Brian a present too."

 _Remember._ Emma didn't even recall the original reminder.

They located the camping aisle easily enough, the three of them staring at rows of sleeping bags, Porter thankfully heading straight for a blue colored and perfectly plain one that he would, barring catastrophe, never ever plead with her to replace. Emma tried to steer Carina in a similar direction, but she had her own idea, heading straight for a very pink and a very Little Mermaid inspired bag, returning with it to Emma's side, a bright grin lighting up her features. Porter scrunched his nose at it and Emma honestly wanted to do the same, but relented because Carina should have the chance to decide what she liked all on her own.

Shopping for this Brian kid, however, quickly turned into a chore nothing short of hellish. While Emma had warmed to the opportunities of presenting her children with gifts over the years, her heart melting at the look of joy and excitement on their faces as they impatiently tore at wrapping paper, faces lighting up with awe as they examined whatever surprise they found inside, that feeling definitely did not extend to Brian Hansley, her annoyance only growing in strength as Porter waffled, turning down all the suggestions thrown at him.

And, of course, Emma had to consider the question: What did you spend on a ten year old that didn't belong to you, and had earned the position of her son's kind of friend but definitely _not_ his best friend.

Somewhere around the two hour mark Carina started leaning heavily against her side while Porter reached a new level frustration when Emma had refused to buy the very cool but very controversial paintball gun.

"It's an unspoken rule between mothers," Emma told him as he let out a huff of frustration, "that you don't buy each other's kids toys that can bruise, maim, or torture their parent's poor ear drums."

Finally, Emma admitted defeat, and called for back-up, dialing Neal's number. Arguably he had the best handle on these sorts of things, earning expert status in gift giving.

(At least in their family.)

"I'll pick up something on the way home," he agreed, his voice somewhat muffled, drowned out by the combined sounds of the store on her end and _Tallahassee_ on his. "Which one's Brian Hansley?"

"Blonde hair, glasses."

"Soccer or Horses?"

"Soccer team," Emma confirmed, Porter approving the description with a decisive nod as the cashier rang up the two sleeping bags. Emma pressed the phone between her ear and shoulders, returning a candy bar that Carina had tried to sneak past her on the belt, before handing over the necessary cash, missing most of what Neal had said in reply.

"No noise and nothing that bruises," she told him, gathering the plastic bags and gesturing to Porter to grab his sister's hand.

"Not quite as easy then," Neal commented, "but got it.

And Neal came through, Porter rushing to greet him some time later (long after Emma had re-banished him to his room to finish cleaning), immediately grabbing the plastic bag, ripping it open to peer inside.

"Stomp-It Rocket," exclaimed Porter, clutching the box excitedly, the bag floating forgotten to the floor. "This is perfect. Thanks, Dad."

"You're welcome, buddy," said Neal, grinning as he gave Porter's hair a playful tussle, something that Porter quickly dodged as he ran off to his bedroom, announcing his plans to wrap it _right now._

"Yes," she murmured, smiling as she absently leaned into his warmth, Neal having approached from behind as she stirred a batch of tomato sauce. "Thank-you, Dad."

"So sleepover, huh?" he asked, his chin landing on her shoulder. "Did we know about this?"

"Not until this afternoon," said Emma with a heavy sort of sigh. "We really need to work on that whole asking for permission thing. Carina's picking up on it too."

They had yet to have another incident where he just disappeared, he had thankfully learned his lesson there, but Porter had begun developing this bad habit where he would forget to tell them about things until the very last minute. Like what supplies he needed for a project due _tomorrow_ or that his coach had scheduled an extra practice in an hour. And when he did get around to _reminding_ them it rarely came across as a request or question, so much as _do this._

(She mostly suspected it was a phase but that didn't mean she didn't miss the days of please and thank you.)

Neal raised a questioning eyebrow. "Carina?"

"She and Susan _decided_ to have a sleepover at Susan's house," Emma explained, swatting at Neal's hand when he reached for the wooden spoon, stealing a little taste, offering a sound of approval, and then, still grinning, wiping his mouth after she snatched the spoon back unexpectedly.

"So both kids are out of the house this weekend," he murmured, voice husky in that way he knew she liked, lips pressing a whiskery kiss to the base of her neck.

And that sounded very nice, but he had missed the point.

"That's right," she said, very business-like, moving out of his grasp so she could grab a knife and work on chopping peppers for the sauce.

Neal followed, hands looping around her waist once more, lips finding her pulse point. Two things that slowed her vegetable chopping considerably.

"They'll be gone at the same time then," he confirmed, "all night."

"Yes," she said, practically, determined not to fall for Neal's persistent charms. But then he nipped at her neck and _oh._ Her knees went weak and she quickly sidestepped him, shaking the knife at him. "They're here _now_ though."

"I'll just have to start counting down the hours then," he said playfully, taking up the task of stirring (or at least pretending to before he stole another taste). "Maybe make a dinner reservation. We'll call it a date night slash early birthday celebration."

Her features scrunched together in confused amusement. "Hm?"

"You forgot, didn't you?" He retorted, clucking his tongue playfully. "The big Two-Eight."

"I didn't _forget_ ," insisted Emma (only yeah, she had), "I just …"

"Hadn't thought about it?"

He clicked his tongue again at her nod. "Well, at least the kids can keep a secret, I suppose."

"You're not planning something, are you?" Emma asked, and then, at his too-innocent expression, she groaned and, half-whining, added a petulant, " _Neal."_

She didn't see the point, really. With no milestones to mark, twenty-eight didn't even _mean_ anything.

"Nothing big. But birthdays are meant to be celebrated. Moms included," he told her, Emma scrunching her nose when Neal dropped a playful kiss on it. "We'll do something that's just us this Friday. So state your requests now."

"Nothing _too_ fancy," she said because, really, if going out supposedly indicated fun and relaxation (she tended to disagree, but _whatever)_ then she should at least feel comfortable. "And nothing with crayons and connect-the-dots."

"Scrap McD's and _Le Cercle Rouge_ then," he said, over-pronouncing his French to such a degree that Emma had to wipe at the excess spit that had landed on her cheek. "Got it."

Hopefully, she added, "We don't even have to go out."

"C'mon, now," said Neal, pulling her flush against him, arms wrapping around her waist, hands tracing patterns on the small of her back, leaning his forehead against hers. "Nice dinner. A little dessert."

She kissed his chin and then his jaw, "Draw a bath."

He hummed an agreement, brushing his lips against hers, before stressing, " _After_ a nice stroll around Central Park, maybe."

She rolled her eyes and asked, "since when are you into drawn-out date nights?"

"It's your birthday," he murmured, nose brushing her cheek. But when she raised a skeptical brow, he added, somewhat sheepishly, "I thought, maybe, we could start talking about kid number three. Possibly."

Emma kinda froze because of all the things that he could have said, she certainly hadn't expected that one. But she found, too, that it didn't repulse her. The idea. She just needed to think about it.

"Yeah," she said carefully. Or she tried to, but it turned into an especially difficult task when her stomach kept doing flips while her mouth kept twitching upwards despite herself. "We could talk about it. Maybe."

Neal grinned in a way that Emma felt the need to repeat, " _Talk_ ," quite firmly. He nodded in reply, drawing her in for a languid kiss that slowly deepened as she wrapped her arms around him, fingers absently playing with the hair at the base of his neck.

"Is dinner ready yet, Marmy?" Carina's voice carried into the kitchen, followed by an overly dramatic, "Gross," as they reluctantly broke apart, Neal running a hand through his hair, looking flustered as Emma covered her attempt to compose herself by leaning over the stove to check the sauce (which, really, only managed to intensify the heated blush marring her cheeks).

"Fifteen minutes, sweetheart," she said, a bit too generously, "wash your hands."

Carina hurried off and Emma turned a look on Neal, her lips pressed together in mild amusement, "Sure you want more of that then?"

"Oh, desperately," he breathed, want weighing down the words.

* * *

Porter insisted that his father drive him.

"I can't have my mom drop me off," he told her after she had already put on her coat and found her keys.

And while Emma, not even twenty-eight yet, had some serious concerns about her sudden drop in apparent cool-ness, she tried not to take it _too_ personally.

Plus, Neal _had_ known that ten-years-olds apparently liked fake rockets _so._

Carina had no such qualms about her mother, though she had grown quite impatient, eager to get over to Susan's _right now_ to get started on all the things they had planned. Something she eagerly shared with Emma.

"We're going to make _brownies_ , Marmy," said Carina, orbiting her mother as she carefully packed a portable fan, portable humidifier, and an iPod loaded with her favorite soundtracks, "with rainbow chocolates. _Rainbow."_

Emma accompanied her, " _Wow,"_ with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm, gathering the rest of Carina's clothes for the night as she rambled on about the games they would play and the movies they would watch and the popcorn covered in parmesan cheese (a Mrs. O'Brian specialty) that they planned to eat. Which, honestly, sounded kind of delicious.

This enthusiasm, however, started to wane as soon as they pulled out of the long driveway they shared with Mr. Portobello.

"Have you decided what movie you'll watch first?" Emma asked, eyes finding Carina in the rearview mirror briefly before returning dutifully to the road. She knew the expected answer (The Little Mermaid, _obviously)_ , but it seemed the best way to draw her out of her shell.

It didn't work.

She pulled into Susan's driveway with a perky, "we're here," put the car in park and turning in her seat, smiling brightly at Carina, who didn't notice, eyes staring fixedly out the window.

"It's not too late to go back home," said Emma gently, joining Carina in the backseat after failing to coax her out of the car.

Carina gave a firm shake of the head.

Emma ran her finger soothingly through her dark hair, and asked, "are you ready to go in then?"

Carina shrugged, but didn't move.

"Wanna see if Susan wants to stay at our place?"

Carina scrunched her nose, took a moment to think it over, and then shook her head.

"We're kind of running out of options then," noted Emma lightly, bumping her with a shoulder. Carina, however, remained stony-face, biting her lip worriedly, her knuckles white as she clutched the disposable cell phone Neal had bought her specifically for this evening.

Memories, Emma realized, were hard things to shake.

"This isn't a drop-off and a new home, sweetheart," Emma told her gently, fingers gently guiding Carina's chin in her direction, wanting her to see the sincerity behind the words. "I'll be here to pick you up in the morning and if you need us sooner than that, you just use your phone." Emma tapped the emergency phone, clutched tightly in Carina's hand. "Or tell Mrs. O'Brian, she has all our numbers too."

"I know," she murmured and Emma waited until, finally, "Porter's not gonna have to leave _his_ sleepover."

Ah.

"You don't have to do everything he does, Care Bear," said Emma, "but if it makes you feel better then we just won't tell him."

"You _want_ to lie to Porter," said Carina, eyes wide and Emma decided to choose her next words carefully.

"Not _lie._ We just won't tell him," Emma cocked her head, "he doesn't have to know everything."

"But he wants to," said Carina pointedly and Emma smiled slightly.

"I think he'll get by without this particular tidbit," she murmured. "There might not even be anything to tell."

"Okay."

"Okay," and then, somewhat hesitantly, because she didn't want to push, "you'll go in?"

Carina nodded before looking at Emma, somewhat skeptically. "And you promise you'll come?"

"How 'bout I do you one better and pinky swear," said Emma, extending her smallest finger.

"Okay," said Carina, a clammy finger wrapping around Emma's, "I'll go in."

She brightened considerably when Susan rushed to greet them, tugging on Carina's hand and pulling her away before Emma could even say a proper goodbye, leaving it up to her to pass the pink monstrosity over to Mrs. O'Brian.

"I'll keep an eye on her," Mrs. O'Brian assured her, adding, "it's really no trouble," after Emma had taken the opportunity to warn her about Carina's sudden bout of nerves and, of course, thanking her for agreeing to things at the last minute.

It didn't stop her from worrying.

"Fully charged," Neal said, checking his phone at Emma's prompting once she had returned home. "Why?"

"Carina was starting to get antsy when I dropped her off," Emma told him distractedly, suddenly questioning if they should go out to eat at all now.

"We'll bring the charger for the car," he said, sensing her hesitation and then, after a beat, "she'll be fine."

She knew that, of course, it was just … this was Carina's first sleepover. And Porter, too. The both of them. That first night away from home. Well, without at least her or Neal present.

"She'll be fine," he repeated, dropping a kiss on her forehead, pulling her against him, murmuring, "I miss them too."

Emma leaned into him, "Yeah?"

He hummed his agreement, nose nuzzling against her jaw, trailing a path upwards until his mouth was hot against her ear. "Almost as much as I miss hearing you scream my name."

Her breath caught. He'd been running extra hot for days now. Teasing, taunting, all that build-up and absolutely no follow through.

"So get dressed. We'll get ourselves a nice dinner. Maybe after," he licked his lips, "a little dessert."

Two could play that game really.

"You know, fancy clothes," she murmured, stepping back, looking at him through hooded eyes, "We should probably shower first."

He practically growled, rushing after her, racing up the stairs, both of them erupting into fits of laughter when he caught her around the waist, lifting her easily off the ground.

In the end they left later than planned, missing their reservation, forcing Neal to find a suitable back-up. But dinner? Going out? It hadn't been the worst thing in the world. They had food that neither of them had to cook on dishes they didn't have to wash. The phone never rang, but Emma did a fine job of testing it, forcing Neal to send text messages back and forth _just in case_. But eventually she just let herself relax, Neal doing an excellent job of distracting her.

He asked if they, maybe, wanted to split a dessert only to immediately signal for the check when Emma responded to his question with a playful look, her toes stroking up his calf, causing him to draw a sharp hiss inward when she went a little higher than their current location would probably deem appropriate.

(But she couldn't help it. Not when he had worn a tie.)

They barely made it to the car, Emma tangling herself around Neal's arm, pulling herself flush against his side, the pair stumbling along between stolen kisses, before he had her pushed up against the rusty door of the bug, his kiss hungry, her hands performing an eager exploration of his body.

"Did you mean it the other day?" Emma asked sometime after they had reluctantly pried apart for the drive home. "About going for a third?"

Neal smiled lightly and raised the hand holding hers, pressing a fervent kiss along their knuckles their fingers having threaded together as soon as he had turned out of the parking lot. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't."

Emma nodded, accepting this, but didn't broach it beyond that, knowing exactly where she wanted to stand on the matter, but not exactly she should.

"Do _you_ want another kid?" Neal asked.

"Sometimes, _yeah._ " She knew, at least, if they did have another she wanted to do it before the age gap could get much bigger. " _But …"_

"But," Neal finished, "we're doing pretty well."

"Really well," Emma agreed. She hadn't exactly meant that though. "But haven't you noticed? Porter's starting to –"

"Turn into a teenager."

Emma nodded, "And he's not even ten yet, I know, but he acts older. And mostly I think it's just _oh_ , he's mature for his age, but then he can be a bit of a …"

Neal raised a brow. "Smart ass."

Neal said it. _Not_ her.

"I just feel like he's pulling away," Emma murmured.

"Em, baby, it's a sleepover. Just one night out of the house."

"I know," she insisted, a bit defensively, before letting out a sigh as she searched for the right words. "It's just that we don't have that much in common and it's like we don't click as much as we used to."

"It's the age," Neal assured her, "one of those phases, y'know, with the peer pressure and all that. Just wait til he discovers dating and then, well, it'll be worse –"

Emma rolled her eyes. " _Thanks._ "

"If it makes you feel any better," said Neal defensively, "I dread Carina's venture into teenage-dom."

She snorted.

"Yeah, laugh now," he murmured in mock disgruntlement, "but then our sweet little girl discovers dating and comes home heartbroken."

She pointedly sidestepped _that_ tirade.

"It's just you two have so much in common," Emma pointed out. "What? With the guy thing."

"The guy thing?" Neal repeated, amused.

"The guy thing," she confirmed. "Horses. Animals in general, really. Your remote thingies."

"Okay, first of all, he's pretty much surpassed my abilities on a horse, and half the time he has his nose stuck in a book." He squeezed her hand, relaxing back into the seat slightly as they waited at a red light. "Baby, this thing you're worried about? It's the fact that our son is significantly more gifted than we could ever hope to be. He's his own person and better one than we could have ever predicted. We did good."

She knew they had.

Mostly she just hated the idea of letting him go, bit by bit, to the wider world. Everyone else getting more and more of him while they got less and less.

"And I would say all the same things about Carina," Neal added passionately as the car resumed forward motion. "You're so great with the kids. I love just watching you with them," he smirked, teasing, "particularly knowing how far you've come, Miss I Hate Kids."

Emma groaned, her brow furrowing in something akin to mortification, because yeah, she distinctly remembered saying something along those lines. Which, now, she couldn't imagine ever thinking, but … she'd been a different a different person then.

"But mostly, Em," he continued, sobering, "I love coming home every day to their laughter and their stories. Watching them grow and learn and try has got to be the best feeling in the world. And so yeah. I want more of it. How could I not, really?"

A warmth filled her at his words because she loved watching them grow and learn and try too. But more than that: becoming a mother had gifted Emma with a sense of purpose, pushing her, not only at home, but out in the world too. She couldn't have become half the person she was now, she didn't think, if it weren't for Porter and Carina. And she thought, _hoped,_ that she did the same for them. Give and take.

"I want more of it too," she told him.

He smiled, turning bright eyes on her. "Yeah?"

"Yes," she agreed firmly, before giving a single nod toward the windshield. "Eyes on the road."

Neal laughed, delighted, as he focused back (somewhat) on the task of driving and Emma, ridiculously giddy, felt her own smile grow.

&8&

They wound up on the kitchen floor, a towel stained with melting ice cream haphazardly draped over them, their limbs tangled together and chests heaving after having found a deliciously creative use for the chocolate treat.

Emma turned on her side, lips pressing into Neal's shoulder, toes moving up and done his leg, just reveling in their closeness.

"I think we outdid ourselves," he murmured, pushing damp, blonde hair to the side and Emma hummed an agreement, burrowing into his side, officially sated because _dear God_ had that been a creative use of his tongue.

They fell into a certain silence that didn't typically occupy their house, not even at night, Carina needing the gentle hum of a humidifier, a noisy fan, and the Little Mermaid soundtrack to successfully fall asleep.

"This was nice," she murmured, absently playing with his fingers, "it's weird though. The house being so quiet."

"Starting to miss the kids?" asked Neal, understanding coating his tone, flattening his palm against hers, forcing Emma to follow suit.

She nodded, her hand pushing at his, Neal playfully resisting the force. "There always just done the hall, y'know."

"I'm sure we'll sing a different tune once they're back, driving us up the wall," he said, giving up their battle to trail his fingers across her stomach, "maybe we managed to add a third to the bunch."

Emma smiled gently. Liking the thought, but while they had certainly been persistent enough in their pursuit she would have to officially stop taking her birth control pills before anything could happen.

(Tomorrow morning. She'd throw them out.)

"We should take them somewhere," she suggested, "over the winter break."

They had their annual trip to Vermont, but that was really more a day thing.

"Eager to escape the New York winter already?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Maybe, but we haven't really taken Carina anywhere yet, have we? And Port gets antsy all cooped up with nowhere to go." Even his precious books couldn't fully quench that adventurous spirit their kid had.

"He's been talking a lot about hiking," noted Neal.

"Great," said Emma drily.

"I think we can find a place even you can enjoy," he murmured teasingly, "damn country is big enough."

"As long as it doesn't involve sleeping on the ground," she said, her nose scrunching in certain distaste at the very idea of it.

Neal pressed a quick kiss to her nose, snapping at it teasingly before murmuring a somewhat disgruntled, "You're never going to let me live that one down."

"No." Emma agreed simply.

Fuck, he loved her.

"We'll find you a nice hotel," he said, smiling indulgently, his nose brushing her cheek.

She released a content sigh, hot air landing on his shoulder. "Beside we don't know how Carina will fair with the hiking. We'll want to find something for her too."

He hummed his agreement fingers tracing patterns along her arm, "some place with a nice zoo, maybe. She's been on that animal kick. And Porter never got off it."

"It'll be nothing but monkeys on _Hope_ for weeks," she complained, her lips forming a pout.

"I draw the line at non-human primates," Neal assured her, dragging his teeth gently across the lip she had jutted out. "and she's been into that theatre stuff at school –"

"She likes to dress up, I think," she said lightly, Neal's mouth tracing a path along her jaw.

Though Emma knew, of course, that it was more than _just_ that because the obsession had actually started with a trip to the city and a viewing of _what else_ but The Little Mermaid for her birthday back in May. But instead of the blind praise for all things Ariel they had expected (though this had occurred as well), she had asked a number of questions about the more technical aspects as well. And then, that September as the new year started, she came home, present a flier for the school play she had signed up for.

"I'm sure we can find something to satisfy everyone," said Neal confidently, his pursuit taking a pit stop, teeth nipping at her ear lobe

"Ah," she stated, her typical dry sarcasm getting lost in pleasure-filled moan, "the joys of vacation."

"You're right though," he said, pulling back just enough to offer her a serious sort of look, "it'll be nice to get away for a bit. Give into that old wanderlust thing."

She raised a brow. "Whatever happened to those drives we used to take? Those were nice."

Neal let out a snort. "You mean when you weren't complaining that I was going to get us stranded in the middle of nowhere."

Emma rolled her eyes and shoved at him lightly, Neal responding in kind before giving a light shrug, returning to her original question. "Just life, I think, and Porter got too antsy cooped up in the car. We can try bringing them back though. I really can't see the kids going for it though. Not every week anyway."

"Well, I officially request a mini road trip for my birthday," said Emma, lifting her chin in mock defiance.

Neal kissed her chin and then her mouth. "Granted."

"Hm. My hero," she murmured between kisses that quickly deepened because apparently they were both insatiable tonight. Emma couldn't really bring herself to care though, rolling so that she was straddling him, the towel falling away, his fingers stroking down her back, lips finding his jaw, giving playful nips between kisses as she moved down, finding that extra sweet spot on his neck, causing him to let out a delicious groan. She forged a path down his chest, making a few pit stops along the way, though truthfully she had a special destination in mind, licking from the base of his cock to the tip, before wrapping her mouth around him fully. Neal hissed inward, hands tightening in her hair and ...

… and the doorbell cut through the house with an unpleasant and obnoxious suddenness, jolting them apart and dampening the mood as quickly as stepping into an ice cold shower would.


	2. Chapter 2

While Emma tended to dislike the copious amounts of nature that surrounded their house, she had definitely grown to appreciate the middle-of-nowhere feel of it. Tucked away on the far end of Mr. Portobello's property (which was huge in and of itself), no one could really accidentally stumble upon them. Not without stumbling onto Mr. Portobello first. Nor did they have to worry about obnoxious neighbors that felt some social obligation to say hello whenever they crossed paths. And while their house didn't actually sit in the middle of nowhere, it _was_ out of the way. People who visited tended to have a purpose and _never_ outstayed their welcome because no one wanted to drive the windy country roads after dark.

So it made – Emma squinted wearily at an antique cuckoo clock Neal had repaired – surprise visitors at ten minutes to midnight the worst kind of anomaly.

"Fuck," Neal hissed, running a weary hand through his hair, groaning unhappily when Emma hastily threw on his shirt.

She shared the sentiment.

"Wait," said Neal, a hopeful look crossing his features as he grabbed at her arm, "Maybe they'll go away."

Emma raised a brow because, if anything, the doorbell ringing and obnoxious knocking (bang, _bang_ , _BANG_ ) had grown more persistent, Phang barking, running at great speeds between the door and the kitchen in his attempts to alert them and defend his territory against this sudden intruder.

"Doesn't sound like it," she said wryly, getting to her feet, "besides it might be the O'Neils. I told you Carina was nervous when I dropped her off."

"So they _hate_ us now," he muttered disgruntledly, Emma disappearing out of the kitchen, gathering abandoned clothes, then returning and dropping them on his chest, bra included.

"Those go upstairs. I'm gonna need," she grabbed at the skirt that he had set aside in search for his pants, "these. And see if you can spot my underwear, would you?"

(They must have gotten tossed somewhere during their earlier activities.)

Neal groaned. "Tease."

Emma winked and grabbed the half-melted container of ice cream, dropping it in the sink, the spoon they had shared joining it with a clatter, nudging Neal with a toe as she passed. "Gotta move it, babe."

She half-jogged to the door, Phang hot on her heels (nearly making her trip) she looked through the peephole, nerves clawing at her stomach as she realized, for one horrible, agonizing moment, that only cops tended to knock on doors at this hour with bad news and both of her children were out of the house.

(Surely someone would have called.)

But the person at the door, if she squinted and cocked her head, only looked vaguely familiar but certainly not someone she actually recognized.

No badge, thankfully. Not even a police car.

"Can I help you?" Emma asked, voice severe, mouth and eyes all hard lines, keeping a secure hand on Phang's collar as he whined pitifully, opening the door just enough to peek out, her sudden irritation only increasing as the smell of alcohol reached her nose, the stench strong enough that he might as well have dunked himself in it.

"Emma," he tried to step closer only to stumble and, with a surprised look about him, he grabbed at the door frame in the effort to find purchase, "Swan?"

She raised a brow, letting out a short, harsh, "Yeah?"

She should call the cops.

She would have already done so _gladly_ if the kids were in the house.

"My name's August W. Booth," he told her, pausing, clearly expecting the name to mean something to her, and when her gaze failed to waver, he continued, his words blurring together drunkenly, "I need you to come with me."

"Mr. Booth," said Emma after taking a moment to survey him. A long, critical look that, in no uncertain terms, said she could find nothing remotely impressive about this man. "I'm only going to say this once and then I'm going to call the cops. Please leave my property.

August frowned and blinked rapidly, looking quite put out, as if he had obviously expected this to play out differently.

"I can't do that," he insisted, a plea full of desperation and regret, Emma growing increasingly unnerved by the wild-eyed look he had going on. She moved forward, ready to slam the door in his face, but even in his state he managed to catch on, using his foot to stop the door, the quick movement causing his to teeter dangerously. " _Please._ Just listen."

"Mr. Booth," she said, voice containing a level of threat she hadn't had to use in nearly a decade, " _now_."

"I _know_ you," he continued, the words pouring out of him rapidly as he used all of his strength to keep the door open, "I found you. When you –"

"Please _leave._ "

" – On the side of a highway." The words caused her to falter, just briefly, but enough to give him an edge.

"A little seven year old boy found you," he continued, eyes wide and glassy. "That was me. I brought you to this little roadside diner. In Maine. Here –"

Having jammed his body as far as he could into the doorway, he felt comfortable enough to dig around his pocket for a bit. Emma sniffed distastefully, Phang straining, teeth barred, desperately waiting for that moment when her grip would give him just enough slack to go after the stranger, while she glanced behind her, searching for Neal until before a hand, smelling strongly of pine and alcohol, shoved a newspaper clipping under her nose.

She didn't take it.

(She knew exactly what it said, the words having seared themselves into her brain years ago.)

"Congratulations," she said drily, shoving his hand away, "you know how to read."

Booth ignored this.

"You were wrapped in a hand-woven baby blanket," he said, his words suddenly lacking any signs of his drunken slur, as if this knowledge somehow sobered him, "with your name embroidered on the side."

That hadn't been in the article.

She nearly faltered again. _Nearly_. Before she realized that no, it didn't actually matter. She gave the door another hard shove, deciding that, even if he did have himself wedged in there pretty good, she could at least gift him with a couple of nasty bruises.

"That doesn't mean you _know_ me," she retorted.

"No?" He asked, fixing her with shrewd eyes, "Because I know who your parents are. I can help you find them. Tell you everything that you've ever wondered about them –"

Emma lifted her lips in a half-smile, pitying, as if she almost felt sorry for him.

"Except I don't care," she told him, "I stopped caring about them a long time."

She meant every word.

August frowned, seemingly baffled by this. _"Why_?"

" _Why?"_ Emma repeated harshly, "You supposedly found me abandoned on the side of a road, Booth, you tell me."

He shook his head frantically, the force behind the motion causing him to sway a bit.

"No," he breathed, the single word holding a certain intensity, as if he had just shared the secret of life with her. "That's the thing. They didn't abandon you, Emma. They were trying to save you."

The notion made her laugh, loud and harsh and not remotely amused. "You're not making a very good case for yourself, Booth."

He seemed to understand this because that desperate, wild-eyed look returned, chasing away that short spark of clarity.

"You have to save them," his words jumbled together as he pleaded with her. "You _have_ to come with me. It's the only way."

She couldn't hold the door _and_ remove him from her porch, but she had finished entertaining his drunken rambles. He knew her, _somehow_ , but she didn't feel a single ounce of curiosity as to how or why. Only fear. It drowned out her annoyance, the fact that this drunken, sorry excuse of a man knew where she lived. Where her _children_ lived. That along allowed the fear to morph into something much more useful: anger. She used this leaning heavily against the door, finally releasing Phang so she could use all her strength to push him out.

(Phang, sensing her mood, snapped viciously at the man, jumping in his attempt to match his height, clearing defending his territory.)

But, somehow, he used her strength against her, giving the door a final shove, the momentum of it knocking Emma to the ground as he weaseled his way into the house.

"Neal," Emma called, a warning as she scrambled to her feet, grabbing an umbrella from the coat stand as Phang barked violently, his nails scratching across the floor as he zigged and zagged in front of the intruder, desperately trying to cut off his progress.

(She officially loved the dog.)

* * *

The sudden interruption had been a bit, uh, _painful_ at first but it did little to detract from his mood as he gathered the abandoned clothes, and trotted up the stairs, pulling out an old pair of sweats from their dresser, the lover's knot brushing his arm (they really needed to trim it again) as he passed through the door to the bathroom where he splashed a generous amount of cold water on his face, desperately trying to will away the last of his arousal because Neal definitely didn't want to greet his daughter in his current state.

He took a deep breath in and then out, did his best not to think about Emma sprawled out on the counter … her skin flushed (and, okay, he failed miserably), and then headed downstairs grabbing a thing of juice out of the fridge, taking a swig right out of the bottle because damn, that workout had left him feeling deliciously parched.

Phang's growls carried into the kitchen, and Neal wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, the sound of Emma calling for him interrupting his thoughts to gather up the dog. He tried capping the juice before a bang caught his attention, the sound immediately followed by another call, his name this time, dripping in Emma's desperate panic, causing his heart to thunder violently in his chest. The juice clattered to the floor, splashing his sweats and leaving the smell of processed grapes in his wake.

In his haste he nearly collided with an unfamiliar figure, Emma following closely behind the stranger, wielding an umbrella like she would a weapon, and _this,_ her panicked shout, and the sudden stench of alcohol hurried Neal into action and, on nothing more than instinct, Neal took a swing, his fist connecting with the man's unshaven face, a harsh crack accompanying the punch.

Emma immediately followed on the heels of his action and, even though the man was already wobbling on his feet, groaning as he rubbed his cheek gingerly, she swung the umbrella like a bat, aiming it right at his stomach. The guy went down immediately with a loud thud, seemingly (hopefully) out cold, Phang approaching him, sniffing, whining pitifully as he looked between the stranger and them as if awaiting orders.

Neal scratched his ears approvingly, commanding him with a gentle, "Sit," that the dog followed dutifully, the lines of his body tense as he remained alert.

"Where were you?" she asked accusingly as Neal shook his hand, wincing a bit because damn, that hurt.

Neal snapped the waistband of his jeans in reply, his brow furrowing as he looked down at their unwanted guest, "What the fuck?"

"We need to call the cops," said Emma, all business-like as she marched to the kitchen, shoving the umbrella at him as she passed.

"Em," he called, trying to catch her attention because that didn't really tell him anything and then, because he couldn't follow her without leaving the creep unattended, he turned the word into something a bit harsher, " _Emma."_

"He's some sort of," she gestured wildly after she had reappeared, phone clutched in her hand, "some sort of stalker. He knows my name and about my blanket. And he claims to know who my parents are."

Neal blinked, desperately trying to process the words, before softening into something akin to awe. " _Your_ parents? _Emma –"_

"He could know the Pope for all I care, Neal," she snapped, shooting him a wholly unimpressed look, "this is not a man I want knowing where we live. Where _our_ children live."

"Right. You're right," he agreed, his jaw tightening at the mention of Porter and Carina, the bigger picture moving into focus, and he gestured to the phone as if to say go ahead, Emma softening briefly as she flipped the phone open.

" _Baelfire."_

The word, nothing more than a pained, slightly slurred whisper, cut through the room like a knife, causing them both to freeze, the only other sound Phang's unhappy growl as Emma looked up in alarm and, for a moment, the world stopped as Neal felt his blood run cold.

That wasn't possible.

Emma reacted first, returning her focus to her phone, stating harshly, "I'm calling the cops."

But Neal shook his head, holding up a hand, desperately telling Emma she needed to wait. Because it was impossible. He couldn't know that name. Not unless –

"What did you call me?"

He had heard wrong. That was all. That had to be it.

"I called you Baelfire," the stranger said, the threat of the name somewhat lessened by an unsteady cough, "That's your name right? Bet you didn't even bother to tell her that, did you?"

Neal ignored the jab.

" _How_ do you know that name?" he demanded, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the umbrella tightened.

"He's a stalker, Neal," said Emma flatly and wholly unimpressed, but Neal's skin itched in a sudden desperate need for answers, fear clawing at his throat, demanding that he get rid of the sudden threat. Something Emma impatiently waited to help him with. He wanted to give the go signal. More than anything. But the man knew the impossible and now Neal needed to know _how._

How else could he protect his family?

(Nothing good could come out of something possibly knowing that name.)

( _Nothing._ )

The stranger wore a sardonic smirk. "Let's just say a little fairy told me."

Neal caught the meaning well enough, even if it lacked any sort information he would deem useful.

And suddenly, perhaps oddly, feeling strangely exposed, he wished he had thought to put on a shirt.

"Neal," Emma asked, voice low, _close_ , and he realized she had approached him, standing at his side, a hand on his shoulder blade. "What does that mean?"

"I," he faltered a bit because stating the full meaning of the man's statement would only complicate things further, but he also refused to lie. Not to Emma. Not now. He sighed, fear and a certain weariness weighing down his next words, "It means that he knows my father."

Concern coated her features, "What does –"

"I've been looking for you a long time," The stranger said, the words bursting out of him, interrupting Emma, causing hard lines and set features to snap back into place, and Neal wished the man had known enough to just keep his trap shut. Provoking Emma would only draw this out and while Neal loved her fierce protective streak (and, when not directed at him, he even found her temper kinda sexy), he desperately needed to get to the bottom of things. Now.

" _Neal_ ," she prompted harshly.

"I don't know, baby," he said gently before turning hard eyes on the man lying on their floor, "but I intend to find out."

His father was many things, most of which had stopped making sense to him a long time ago. But Neal _did_ know, with absolute certainty, that … _thing_ that had taken over his father's body never did anything half-assed. So, even _if_ Rumpelstiltskin had, somehow, managed to find him, Neal couldn't think of a single scenario where he'd risk sending a loose cannon such as the drunk in front of them to play messenger. It was too messy.

So what he knew and how he knew it? It came from someone else.

(Which only caused the lead weight twisting his stomach into knots to tighten even further.)

"What's your name?" Neal asked, using the same harsh tone of his earlier demand, forcing one of his hands to break the vice-like grip on the umbrella to reach blindly behind him, finding Emma's hand and squeezing it tightly. Both to reassure her and ground himself, her presence never failing to help him battle his demons.

"August W. Booth."

"That your real name?" he questioned skeptically.

"No," he said amiably enough, "back home I went by Pinocchio."

He heard Emma snort and couldn't help but imagine the sarcastic eye roll he knew she would partner with the derisive sound.

"Fitting," she said, moving, standing between the two men, breaking their pointed glances as she fixed Neal with a harsh look of her own. "He's a drunk, Neal, and clearly delusional."

Neal found himself completely tempted to voice an agreement that he only half-believed so that, together, they could remove the stain currently blemishing their home. But he couldn't. The unspoken threat still hung in the air, Booth's answer telling him two things: He had, at some point, lived in the Enchanted Forest and therefore throwing him out on his ass without draining him of every last drop of information he contained was more of a risk than actually entertaining his story.

But whatever August happened to know? Neal didn't want Emma to hear it from anyone _but_ him. He would tell her. _Everything._ But not like this.

"Em, I think I need to," he started, adamant in his decision, even when his tone and features held the distinct air of reluctance, as if he wanted to do anything but.

She caught on and immediately cut in, "Neal, you don't."

"I do," he insisted, squeezing her hand, "I need to talk to him."

Emma blinked and then grabbed his face between her hands, leaning her forehead against his, and, in a clear attempt to shut August out, spoke in nothing more than a low murmur, "Babe we should be calling the cops. He's clearly sick. A stalker. That's it."

Neal squeezed his eyes shut, the extent of her faith in him suddenly painful, and, after swallowing thickly, he pulled Emma out of earshot, keeping his eyes trained on August as he spoke.

"I've told exactly one person my name in the last decade, Emma," he told her, a hint of his growing fear lacing the words despite himself, "but somehow he knows it and I need to know how."

 _"Why?"_ Emma asked, mouth pressing down in a thin line.

"Because," Neal said intensely, "if he knows my father that may mean he's not far behind. And that's nothing good. For any of us."

Emma had that look. That look that said she wanted to ask a thousand more questions but couldn't decide where to start.

"I just need a minute," he assured her (or tried to), "to suss out what he knows."

She bit her lip, harsh lines fading into something that broke his heart as she asked, voice suddenly small and vulnerable, "You want me to leave?"

"No," he said firmly, cupping the sides of her face, pressing his lips gently to her temple, before resting his own forehead against hers. "But there are things that I have to tell you – things that I'm going to tell you soon as we're alone. I swear. But not in front of this guy. That's not how I want to do it."

Neal telling her was about _them_ , not whatever agenda Booth needed to push. August's presence would only continue to agitate her, Emma growing increasingly defensive, her temper and need to protect blocking everything out, hampering her ability to listen with any sort of open mind.

(Asking her to leave, of course, would accomplish a different result, trapping Neal in a lose-lose situation that, really, he only had himself to blame for.)

Emma furrowed her brows together before her features shifted, taking on a look Neal hadn't seen in years, her face becoming completely blank.

"You wouldn't have said anything at all," she stated harshly, "if he'd never shown up."

She didn't say it as an accusation, not exactly, but more just a simple statement of fact. He could see her building walls inside her head and around her heart, already preparing for the worst, trying to protect herself from the inevitable. And as much as Neal wanted to reassure her, he absolutely refused to tell a lie.

"No," he agreed, the word forcing Emma's eyes closed. But he wouldn't have. He didn't want to. Not when he considered it completely irrelevant. Unimportant to who he was _now_ and the life he had built with the woman in front of him. And he _knew_ Emma. _Knew_ that she wouldn't be able to wrap her head around magic and other worlds and fucking fairytale characters. Not without proof. Which he didn't have. Not anything more than his word. So he told the important bits. The stuff that made him _him_ and sidestepped everything else. Because it didn't matter.

"It's … _Emma,"_ her eyes opened and they blazed with anger and unshed tears, "It's heavy shit, Em. Shit I left behind me a long time ago, and honestly? I'd sooner keep it there.

She didn't say anything for a long beat and then she deflated, her features softening, hard lines relaxing.

"You don't have to tell me," she insisted, "and you don't have to talk to him either."

Neal swallowed thickly, wishing it were that simple. He might have gone along with it if it were just him and Emma. But: "I need to know what he knows, Em," he murmured. "It's the only way we can be sure the kids are safe."

Something akin to fear and frustration flashed in her eyes, a fierce gaze that returned to hard as she opened her mouth speak, turning hard and she opened her mouth to speak, probably ready to demand answers because he had pulled on the right string. But, even if it pissed Emma off, he needed her to understand this. Needed her to see that situation had grown, surpassing the drunken man half-passed out on their floor, and into something that they couldn't solve with a punch and phone call.

It was bigger and it was, he had no doubt, dangerous.

"We don't have time for this," August cut in, making his presence known, Emma's jaw tensing at the sound of his voice, "I came here for _her._ She needs –"

Emma turned around, eyes blazing. "Here's the thing, _Pinocchio,"_ she spat his name out cruelly, "you don't get to come into _my_ house and make demands. In fact –" Emma managed an intimidating step forward before the phone in her hand lit up, exploding in noise, one of those Disney songs Carina so adored (" _Under the sea, Under the sea."_ ) cutting through the tension, changing her entire demeanor as easily as pressing a switch, Emma answering immediately as she temporarily abandoned the trials of the night and focused fully on their daughter.

"Care?" and "Shh, sweetheart." and "What's wrong?" followed between bits of Carina's muffled (but clearly fast and frantic) speech, Emma trying her best to soothe her with words of comfort, Neal stepping forward, itching with need to hear the other end of the conversation, to know what had his daughter so obviously upset so that he, too, could comfort her. "Yes … twenty minutes … tell Mrs. O'Brian … I love you too, sweetheart … I'll be there soon."

Emma hung up the phone.

Immediately, Neal asked. "Is she alright?"

"She's fine," Emma said shortly, her hard demeanor snapping back into place, "She and Susan just had a fight. But she wants to come home so here's what's going to happen."

She took another step toward August, raising her voice, an unspoken threat riding the undercurrent of her tone. "You have exactly one hour. By the time I get back I fully expect you," she jabbed a finger at Booth, "to be gone. And Neal?" She turned around, steel eyes capturing his gaze, his tone deadly serious even as her voice lowered to a whisper, "I don't care _what_ he tells you. Under no circumstances do I want him in the house with our children. So if he refuses to leave then do whatever it takes. Call the cops if you have to."

And Neal understood that if he didn't, she would.

He nodded, expressing his full agreement

"One hour," she stressed, the words carrying both a threat for August and a promise for him. She hesitated and then dropped a light kiss on his cheek in, for her, a rare show of public affection, murmuring, "love you."

"Love you too," he said quietly, following her as she walked to the door. She grabbed her keys, slipped on a pair of flip-flops they hadn't bothered to pack away yet and slammed the door behind her.

The force of it caused Neal to wince.

He hated himself in that moment, for not telling her everything, before, when he had the chance. And maybe (almost certainly) she wouldn't have believed him, but she would have at least _had_ the truth. But now? Neal _knew_ Emma. Leaving her alone with her thoughts would only cause her to spiral faster, her thoughts spinning out of her control as she plummeted, heading straight for the worst case scenario, destroying her faith to such a degree that would be beyond reach by the time they _did_ have a chance to talk.

He gave himself a moment, taking a deep, cleansing breath that, really, did nothing to calm the drum pounding in his chest, before he retraced his steps back to August's side, fixing him with a harsh glare, nudging him with the tip of the umbrella as he barked out a short, "Start talking."

August didn't seem in much of a hurry, sitting up slightly, and asking, "Got anything to drink?"

Neal snorted derisively, his jaw tensing, before he forced himself to let go of the building explosion, for now, while he focused on his goal.

"What do you want?" he asked tersely, "Water?"

"Something stronger might be nice," said August, hope lining the words.

Neal wasn't in the mood.

"Look, man," Neal said, near now to the point of shouting as he pointed the umbrella, using it to add emphasis to each of his words as his anger began to boil over. "If I have to I will call the cops. And, y'know, there's a good chance Emma already did the second she walked out the door. So spit out whatever is so damn important and then get off my property."

"Throwing me out won't make this go away," he warned. "You can't outrun this. _She_ can't outrun this. That girl of yours has a destiny. And you've done nothing but hold her back."

Neal swallowed thickly, the words striking a nerve, doubt and fear threatening to overwhelm his righteous anger, but he stood his ground, the deep-rooted instinct to protect his family allowing him to harness the fierce energy that lingered in the wake of Emma's threat to stare down both August and his insecurities.

"Let's cut past the cryptic bullshit," he said, voice low but harsh, Neal using the umbrella to gesture at the bruise forming beneath Booth's eye. "Unless you want to complete the set."

Like he had told Porter, Neal didn't approve of violence, not even as a last resort, but August was a different kind of threat that jeopardized everything he cared about.

August sighed, wobbling a bit as he climbed to his feet, Phang standing with him, eyes watching him like a hawk.

"Twenty-eight years ago the Evil Queen cast a curse," he explained, leaning heavily against a wooden pillar, "a curse that brought everyone in the Enchanted Forest _here_ , to this world."

Neal's hands shook, the force it causing the umbrella to vibrate, a painful limp forming in his throat, his voice hoarse and tight as he asked, "Rumpelstiltskin?"

"Probably," said August, shoulders forming an unconcerned shrug as he pushed off the pillar, approaching Neal, Phang and the stench of alcohol trailing behind him. "Her parents _are_ though. Trapped with no idea who they are. _Forever_. Unless she breaks the curse. They didn't abandon her. They saved her. And now she has to save them."

August might believe this, but Emma, who didn't necessarily place equal emphasis on intent and a person's actual actions, would likely form a different opinion.

He fixed Booth with a critical look, asking, "How do you fit into this then?"

"My father was tasked with crafting a wardrobe out of a special tree that would be used as a portal to this world. Only its magic was finite. So he cut a deal with the Blue Fairy – he would only build it if I got to go through too. Everyone thought Snow would –"

"Snow?" he asked in confusion.

"Y'know? Snow White," said August impatiently. "Emma's mother."

Well, fuck.

(Neal half-wished he actually had the time to appreciate the humor of this.)

"We all thought Snow would get to go," August continued pointedly, "that the wardrobe would be finished before she gave birth, but –"

"Shit happens," he interrupted flippantly, "and somehow it seemed like a good idea to send a kid to a foreign land with an infant? Yeah, got it?"

 _That_ , Neal knew, he couldn't pin on Booth, but that didn't mean it didn't still piss him off. Two kids had to grow up alone because of someone's thoughtlessness. That was never okay.

"My father carved me from wood," explained August, a defensive note carrying his tone, "he didn't know what would happen to me when the curse hit. He made me promise though. I promised to take care of the Savior. To make her believe and help her break the curse."

Neal choked out a cruel laugh, "I'm sure you've made him real proud."

"I thought she'd be safe inside the system," August insisted.

Neal raised a skeptical brow. "Did you?"

He found this hard to believe, the pained look that crossed August's features only confirming his suspicions. Booth knew exactly what Emma had suffered in the system because he had endured it too.

(Except August, at least, had been armed with the knowledge that someone, somewhere out there, loved him.)

August swallowed thickly and said instead, "I figured I could catch up to her when she was out. I managed to track her down to Portland, but she disappeared before I could do anything. It took another year before I found you both in Tallahassee, but by then she had a kid and I figured, well, there was still time, so why lay this at her feet too."

Well, at least he had _some_ sense.

"I'm not," he continued, almost hesitantly, shame written all over his face, "this world, y'know, it's full of temptations. I got caught up in things I shouldn't have."

"Like alcohol," Neal noted flatly.

"That's one of them, yeah," Booth agreed, running a weary hand over his face, before looking up, a hint of an apology in his eyes. "I knew I had screwed up by not staying at Emma's side and the guilt of it ate away at me. I got lost and by the time I looked up, I realized I was out of time. And then I found out you two had moved house again –"

"You didn't think to clean up though?" Neal questioned, cutting in as his umbrella whipped down in a fierce display of renewed anger. "You knew we had kids and you still thought it'd be a good idea to knock on our door in the middle of the night, drunk of your ass."

"I was desperate," Booth said pathetically, half-pleading with Neal, as if willing him to understand. "She turns twenty-eight in two days and I don't know what happens if she's not there."

"Why twenty-eight?" Neal asked brow furrowing in confusion. "Seems like an odd number."

August shrugged. "I just know that it was foretold that she would return on her twenty-eighth birthday."

You don't mess with magic. Neal knew that (probably better than anyone). And he also understood that prophecies had a way of happening regardless of the measure taken to prevent certain undesirable events from unfolding. But even now that Neal couldn't fathom how anyone, even him, could hope to successfully convince Emma all of this was true _and_ get her to play along. Not ever. And definitely not in two days.

With a hint of hopeless resignation, he asked, "Return where?"

Another guilty look passed over August's face and he admitted, "I don't know."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered, running a hand roughly through his hair, tugging on it, turning where he stood, desperately looking for a way to suppress the anger and frustration spurred on by August's complete ineptness before settling on glancing at his wrist, checking his watch and half-hoping he had no time left to spare.

He rubbed his eyes clearly, before squeezing them shut tightly, trying to focus on what question he could ask that would pull more information out of August (who obviously didn't know anything remotely useful), taking great pangs to avoid the single, overwhelming thought that followed the sudden crack that had formed in the life he had built with Emma and Porter and Carina. Because he knew, could feel it in his bones, that, with one wrong step, it would all crumble and everything that meant anything to him would disappear.

He _really_ didn't expect an answer, but knew that he needed to ask anyway. "I don't suppose you know _how_ she's supposed to break the curse."

"No," Booth confirmed, "But she _needs –_ "

"Yeah, I got that," Neal snapped running another frustrated hand through his hair. "How'd you know? Who I was, I mean?"

August merely stared, a knowing look crossing his face, accompanied by the beginnings of a smartass smirk. Neal's fingers tightened around the umbrella again, his grip painful.

"Fine," he said shortly, a firm hand grabbing August's elbow, "the well's obviously dry so it's time for you to go."

Hand tight on Booth's elbow, Neal walked, _pushed_ him really, the umbrella swinging between them, hitting August absently in the back as Neal tried corralling him in the direction of the door, Phang following behind them.

"I can't just leave," August pleaded, that wild-eyed look returning, "I _need_ to talk to Emma. She needs to –"

" _I'll_ talk to Emma," he said pointedly, the words anything but a promise. Neal's obligation was to Emma. Not this man. "It's her decision. She'll decide what she wants to do."

"You can't _decide_ destiny," said August firmly.

"Emma would tell you differently," Neal told August, guiding him out the door with a firm hand, Phang squeezing out the door, hot on August's heels, causing him to stumble slightly. Booth fixed him with a look full of urgency, hurrying forward, Phang snapping at him viciously, August lodging his hand in the door frame, stopping Neal from slamming the door shut.

"You're pushing your luck," hissed Neal, absently adding a "down, Phang," to calm the barking.

"I know, I know," said August, and he almost sounded apologetic. "Just let me give you my number."

He trailed off, using the hand not currently sitting his door jam and absently, annoyed eyes landed on the bike, of the motorcycle variety, sitting in his driveway. How August had managed to get here in one piece given his state and the windy, country roads he would have to navigate, astounded Neal. And normally he would play the nice guy, tell him to sit while he called a cab. But he couldn't worry about _that._ It didn't even cross his mind. Not when his own family, once as strong and mighty as the Argo Navis, suddenly seemed as fragile as the rest of the ordinary ships that had perished at the Clashing Rocks.

"Please," August begged, shoving a crumbled piece of paper at him, "just take my number. If something happens you can call me. I know I screwed up, but I want to help. _Really._ "

Neal sighed wearily. Booth couldn't honestly expect to waltz into their lives at zero hour, turn everything they knew upside down, and then just play pals.

"You can barely stand up right," Neal pointed out, "what _exactly_ do you think you have to offer?"

"I'll sober up," August said and then, at Neal's skeptical look, his promise turned insistent, "I will."

Neal had heard promises like that before and from people that had held a great deal more of his trust. They didn't follow though so why should he expect August would.

"Just please take it," August pleaded, shaking the paper at him once more, "and I'll leave."

Neal took it. If only to get rid of him.

"Thank you," he breathed, taking on the look of someone who had just been relieved of a great burden. Neal watched as August stumbled down the steps, quickly grabbing Phang by the collar before he could run after him. And, when he was certain Booth had left the property, he ushered the dog back inside before shutting the door and twisting the lock, falling heavily against the polished wood, pressing the palms against his eyes, dragging them down his face harshly, catching Phang's own worried gaze before turning and, with a frustrated growl, let his fist collide with the harsh wood of the door as Phang whined pitifully.

For the first time in years terror overwhelmed him, grabbing on, filling every nook and cranny of his body. It should be this wonderful thing, Emma finally on the verge of finding her parents. And it was. Save for all that followed in their wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Her head was pounding.

Like a sharp pain behind the eyes that accompanied the ever-expanding lump in her throat. Something that had appeared right around the time Neal, she decided, had broken Rule Number Three. Emma rarely cried and she didn't now (she refused to actually). Not really. But her eyes had begun to burn, her vision blurring slightly until Emma wiped angrily at them, the force of it accidentally knocking her glasses off one of her ears, causing them to hang crookedly on her nose until she impatiently corrected their position.

She wouldn't cry. Not when it felt like admitting a betrayal. She had no reason to doubt Neal. Not now. Not until he told her whatever he needed to tell her.

Not even if he had (most definitely) broke Rule Number Three.

(We always make decisions together.)

Why hadn't he told her _before_ now?

( _Together.)_

What could _possibly_ be so bad that he had felt like he couldn't tell her?

They had made Rule Number Three (formerly Two) sometime after deciding to move to Tallahassee. Emma had pulled out the frayed notebook where she had written out Rule Number One (now Two) along with its many addendums, and then proceeded to wait for Neal to return from his meeting with a guy who knew a guy that _might_ buy the watches from them at a decent price.

"What's this for then?" Neal had asked, fingering a frayed edge after sharing the proposed deal.

Emma eyes had gone wide after hearing it because holy shit _that_ would make for a good start.

(And it had – just more along the lines of a cover and a fresh start rather than a comfy security blanket that they could fall back on until finding actual jobs.)

But his smile had faltered when he had glanced down at the kinda list. A sure sign that he had probably broken one of the amendments without her knowledge (typically this had involved giving her the last of the stash without setting anything aside for himself).

(He had tried to excuse this by complaining that she got mean when hungry, but Emma had _known_ what he was doing and refused to just let it slide.)

"We need a new rule," Emma had told him, pen tapping the notebook in her lap, her legs stretched out and her feet had, somehow for such a small space, come to rest comfortably on the dashboard. "One that doesn't involve you playing the marauder."

"That's the whole point of this though, isn't it?" he had asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. "To give up the Bonnie and Clyde act? One last hoorah."

Emma's brow had furrowed in her confusion. She hadn't questioned _that_. "Yeah, but I mean, we won't get that far, will we? If you keep playing hero?"

A look of realization had crossed his face then. "You meant martyr."

"Sure, _whatever,"_ she had said, waving this off because _that_ didn't matter nearly as much as this, "the point is you were going to jet off to Canada without telling me."

"I was going to tell you," Neal had insisted, and then, defensively, "I _did_ tell you."

"But you weren't going to include me," she had stressed, pressing her pen against the notebook harshly, hard enough that it had pushed through, creating a hole in the paper. She continued, and a note of hurt had begun to surround her words. "You had already made the decision. Without me."

Sounding half-desperate (as if just thinking about the possibilities again had cause him to fill with panic and guilt), he had hurriedly explained, "Because you shouldn't have to suffer my mistakes, baby. I did this and-"

Emma had immediately started shaking her head at _you shouldn't,_ Neal only managing to get farther on his mini-rant because she had stupidly decided to untangle herself. But once she had gotten her feet back on solid ground, she pressed a finger to his lips, looking at him dead on, expression dead serious. "But we're partners. We're –"

She had faltered then, a blush settling on her cheeks, the thing she had meant to say still new enough that she had still found it difficult to say with any sort of ease.

"In love," he had whispered softly, _fondly,_ swooping in to her rescue after pressing a kiss to her finger, a rough, calloused hand wrapping around her wrist to lower her halting finger while a giddy smile spread across her face in spite of herself (she could help it, y'know, because of the newness), Neal immediately matching it.

"Yeah, she had agreed, somewhat awkwardly, " _that._ That should make your mistakes mine and vice versa. I don't care what the mistake is. If you kill someone I wanna help you bury the body."

His mouth had settled into a smirk at that, eyes alight with sudden amusement, _teasing,_ "You need help burying a body, baby?"

 _"_ _Neal."_

"Okay," he had said after sobering.

The immediacy of his reply had given her pause having, maybe, expected a bit more of a fight. "Okay?"

"Okay," he had confirmed, a palm landing gently on her cheek, thumb moving back and forth in a gentle caress, Emma immediately wrapping a hand around his, holding it there as she leaned into his touch. "We agreed to start a life together and you're right. That means we can't just do things on our own anymore. Not when it might affect both of us." He nodded at the notebook, "we take care of each other, watch each other's back, and make decisions _together._ "

Now, if Emma opened the glove department and pushed aside old, forgotten binkies and a instruction manual for a car-seat, she would find the frayed hole-torn piece of paper where they had written the rule down, making it official. She didn't need to see it though. Not when she had memorized the words well over a decade ago, learning to treat them with a certain respect, as if they served as the very foundation of their relationship – reminding them that they were partners and that, instead of loners that only looked out for number one, they had someone to share the burden of the demons they carried.

Instead Emma turned on the radio, cranking the volume until the dial resisted, letting music fill the car, the seats vibrating with the beat as she made a desperate attempt to drown out her thoughts, knowing that she needed to calm down before pulling into the O'Brian's driveway or else risk upsetting Carina further.

(She hoped, at least, that Porter was having a good time at his party. _Someone_ should get to enjoy their evening.)

Emma suspected that Carina, at least in part, had simply been looking for an excuse to leave, never mind how common it was for eight-year-olds to blow disagreements about board games out of proportion. Either way, she would need her mother to comfort her, _not_ make her worry more (kids _always_ sensed it though, it didn't matter how deep you buried the bad, they just _knew_ ).

And while letting go of the anger that obnoxious ass Booth had inspired remained her most important priority, she also needed to stomp out those seeds of doubt that his arrival had unintentionally planted once and for all. Because it wasn't like she _wanted_ to question Neal. She had no reason _not_ to trust him and she'd always known that he had an unpleasant past. And, for as much of it as he had shared with her over the years, she had never deluded herself into thinking she knew everything. But she had never pushed, agreeing that it didn't matter.

All that _did_ matter was how they were now (and, of course, that they had found each other).

Except, and this was one of those unwanted seeds she desperately wanted to rid herself of before it sprouted roots, Emma had no reason to suspect that anything in her past would cause them and, more importantly, their children harm. Neal, however had immediately begun to question the safety of their family with a single word from Booth.

Maybe it was her. Maybe she should have worried about the threat his father posed the moment Neal had revealed to her just how far down the road of crime his father had gone.

(Honestly? He had sounded like a complete psycho.)

But Neal had sworn that his father could never find him, even going as far to call it impossible. And she had believed him.

(When, exactly, did she stop questioning everything? She had been a person that would always, _always_ , expect the absolute worst. The type of person that would anticipate threats and, rather than wait for it, go out and find it first.)

She slammed a frustrated palm down on the steering wheel, officially drawing Emma's attention to her overly excessive speed, immediately causing her to pick her foot off the pedal as she forced herself to slow down. She took a deep breath too. In and out. Again and again. But it didn't stop, this stupid, mocking thought that kept reminding Emma that, instead of talking to her, his _wife,_ Neal had chosen to entertain the delusions of a drunk in their foyer. Without her. In the home he had built for _their_ family. Something he had _decided_ before Carina had even called her away.

So much for Rule Number Three.

And she got it. Mostly. Got that he needed to find out _what_ sort of threat possibly plagued their family and _what_ , exactly, this Booth guy knew about them.

(Y'know, the guy who apparently went by Pinocchio in this mysterious place he and Neal had once called home.) (Which was ridiculous.) (But, come to think of it, Neal hadn't even blinked at the name.) (Then again, he used to go by Baelfire.)

But it hurt. Hurt that he wouldn't want her standing next to him when this guy delivered the bad, she assumed, news.

(And, arguably, she made for a much better interrogator than he did. Neal was too nice. Too trusting. And, despite his expertise in bullshitting, he had no sense when it came to picking out the lies others told him.)

They had a vice-like grip on her, these unwanted thoughts, along with her stomach, too, squeezing and twisting her intestines, each knot getting pulled tighter and tighter as she considered Booth in their home, talking to her husband, knowing things about him that she didn't.

And not just Neal. Her too.

Her fingers itched with the urge to call the cops. Or Effie, at least. That's what you did when someone unwanted invaded your home and Emma couldn't shake the feeling that talking to Booth would lead to more bad than not talking ever would.

(Why couldn't Neal see that?)

Neal didn't scare easily. Not unless faced with the possible fragility of his family. His nightmares, even, came from that old runner's instinct, haunting him, trying to trick him into believing that no place was safe (maybe it wasn't), reminding him that even the best of men could fall prey to temptation. Neal again, worrying more about the possibility of what he could become, rather than the danger the actual past presented. He believed it posed a threat now, however. She had seen the fear in his eyes and heard the waver in his voice. He _needed_ time to work out the specifics.

She hated it though. Hated that Neal had endured something so bad that he felt like he had to entertain a stranger. Listen to him. Engage him.

 _Break Rule Number Three._

(It terrified her.)

The car and the watches. He had promised her that he had never pulled anything bigger than those two things, even going so far as to swear that, until her, he had always worked alone, meaning no old partners would reappear in his life, demanding payment or bringing hell down on their lives. Even his father, he had claimed, possessed no way of finding him. The new identity, Emma had assumed, would only further cement these facts, ensuring their safety as they officially erased Neal Cassidy, replacing him with John Neilson and further removing him from Baelfire. But _still_ , that jackass had known Neal's real name. _Somehow._ What if he worked for Neal's father, hired by a mad man to track down his son.

 _Except_ , and she kept forgetting this, the evening had started with Booth looking for her. The name Baelfire had just served as the proverbial trump card, used in order to force them (or just Neal, apparently) to listen.

The pounding in her head intensified, Emma squinting her eyes behind her glasses before blinking rapidly, trying to clear vision that blurred once more.

She couldn't make sense of any of it.

And none of that, however, explained _why_ Neal broke Rule Number Three, deciding that he couldn't talk with Booth in front of her. Because she had known about his father, the sorts of things he had done, for a good while now. And, okay, maybe, she didn't have an exact list of every crime Mr. Not-Cassidy committed. But should that matter? Like, soon as Neal said people had started turning up dead under suspicious circumstances she had figured she should probably suspect the absolute worst.

She knew enough.

(Only she obviously didn't.)

They had spent the past eleven years together. Neal knew everything about her. But it took years before he could even begin to tell her what he saw in his nightmares and, even then, he still held parts back, never actually sharing any specifics. He had eventually revealed his first name, as ridiculously obscure as it was, but never a last. He had shared how he came to be on his own, but never even bothered to mention his parents' names. Not their occupation or his place of birth (other than not America). And she didn't press it, stupidly perhaps, because those things didn't matter. Not to the girl who had no possible way of knowing who her parents were or what they had done or where they had come from. The past didn't define her so why should a few details about a couple of lousy lay-abouts who she would _hopefully_ never meet (and who obviously didn't give a shit about their son) actually matter.

Neal had told her. He had said _Neal is who I am now_ , assuring her that he had buried Baelfire in the past, leaving him behind. And she accepted this because, honestly, Emma had wanted to forget about her lousy excuse of a past as much as he did. Except Neal _knew_ the important bits. All her weird hang-ups and how she got that stupid scar on her knee.

(Cigarette burn and a drunk foster parent.)

They had children together.

He had neglected to tell her about a part of himself. This huge thing that he had admitted, when cornered, could actually pose a danger.

(Except Booth came there to see her first.)

Anger weighted her foot down and Emma felt the car accelerate once more until she eased up, forcibly moving her foot to the brake, slowing the car down and, she hoped, her thoughts. Only five minutes, at best, remained between her and Susan's. She fiddled with the radio, adjusting the sound and then the channel before just deciding screw it and turning it off completely.

Neal loved his children.

He would never, _not ever,_ let anything happen to them.

If Emma could trust anything, it was that.

So she would just have to let herself. She didn't really have a choice.

She parked in the O'Neil's driveway, hands gripping the wheel tightly as she gave herself one last moment, just to breathe before getting out and knocking lightly on the door. Mrs. O'Neil was perfectly apologetic when she answered and Emma privately assured her that Carina had, most likely, just wanted an excuse to leave.

"Ah, the joys of parenthood," said Mrs. O'Neil and Emma did her best to laugh and actually make it sound convincing.

"Marmy!" Carina rushed at her, Emma kneeling down to embrace her, and while she meant the hug as a means to comfort her daughter, it worked both ways, the knots loosening in her stomach. And she realized _this_ , her daughter, Porter? They were what mattered. And if Neal had to break a rule to make sure they were safe then Emma would have to accept it and move on.

Carina sniffed dramatically, burying her head on her shoulder, and Emma lifted her, letting her settle on her hip while Susan hung back, looking about as unhappy as the little girl in her arms. "I wanna go home."

"What do you say to Mrs. O'Neil, then," instructed Emma, smoothing back her silky black hair.

"Thank you for having me," she said with all the sincerity of a grumpy old man.

"We'll work on that," Emma noted.

"You're quite welcome, Carina. Susan do you want to come say goodbye." Mrs. O'Neil looking at a point over her shoulder where Susan lurked, peering around a corner, but she merely and stomped out of the room, and Mrs. O'Neil turned with an odd look of frustrated amusement. "And we'll work on that."

Mrs. O'Neil walked them to her car, carrying Carina's things and placing them in the trunk while Emma got her settled into the backseat. Mrs. O'Neil stood, leaning in the open window, chatting with her a bit and Emma tried not to make it too obvious as she glanced at the clock. She had a bit of time to waste, though Emma didn't necessarily have a problem going back on her word, cutting the hour short. Her daughter curled in the backseat put things back into a certain perspective. Her thoughts drifted away from the lies and potential betrayal, settling on 'I left my husband and father of my kids alone with a crazy stalker.'

The idea of _him_ in her house still made her skin crawl.

"Marmy, can we _please_ go," Carina pleaded and Emma tried not to make her relief to obvious as Mrs. O'Neil chuckled and stepped back. They said their goodbyes and promises to try again, hopefully with less volatile results, and Carina let out a huff in the back.

"I'm never talking to Susan again," said Carina petulantly as they turned out of the driveway.

"I'm sure that's not true," Emma murmured, eyes meeting her daughter's in the rearview mirror.

Carina shook her head. "Nuh huh."

Considering the hour, Emma decided not to push the subject, eyes automatically drifting to the clock on the radio, nervously chewing her bottom lip before Carina demanded her attention again.

"You're not going to tell Port are you?" she asked, voice quiet and nervous.

"Porter doesn't have to know a thing," Emma assured her.

"Because you promised," she insisted.

"Then you definitely don't have to worry."

Carina bit her lip. "What about Daddy?"

Emma hated the way she stiffened, but her whole body tensed and she had to actually work to keep the night's emotion out of her voice. "What about him?"

Impatient, Carina prompted, "Can Daddy keep a secret?"

"Your daddy is the very best secret keeper I know." Her tone remained perfectly friendly, kind even, but inside the words made her stomach clench and turn.

Carina seemed to study her mother's face in the mirror for a long moment (they always _knew_ ) before nodding, seemingly satisfied and then falling into a certain silence.

Emma followed, her thoughts quietening into a single repeated mantra – Neal was putting their children first. And even if he broken one of the rules, he _had_ remembered the most important ones.

Rule Number One.

And yeah, of course it hurt, that he had left her out of the process. That he felt like he couldn't trust her with all of his secrets, but she could fault him for doing the most important thing of all.

Taking care of Porter and Carina.

That was the _only_ thing that mattered.

* * *

Neal poured through the foyer, attempting to erase all remnants of Booth's presence, desperately trying to get rid of the faint smell of alcohol that lingered in the air with a can of extra strong air-freshener that Emma typically used to get rid of the smell of wet dog.

He did the dishes, the few lone utensils sitting in their sink, and wiped down the counter.

This did not occupy nearly as much of his time as he would have liked.

He was turning into Emma, adopting her insane productivity – any mind-numbing task that would keep her from focusing on whatever she was trying to avoid.

Usually that wasn't Neal's style.

He _should_ be planning out what to say to Emma. But every attempt was an utter failure. Eleven years together and every false start fell flat, Neal picturing Emma's unamused glares and hearing a sarcastic 'seriously,' with every planned attempt. He had completely screwed himself over, naively believing that he could actually outrun his past without consequence. Leaving it behind, desperately trying to forget it as if it didn't matter.

(It didn't.)

And somehow, here they were, and they apparently had more in common then they could ever dream of.

The idea that Emma originally came from the Enchanted Forest as well had certainly thrown Neal for a loop. It raised a number of questions, yeah, but it answered even more, providing a background for the unknowns that had haunted Emma throughout her whole entire life and, maybe, answered a few questions that he had asked and then immediately dropped with the assumption that they were just plain ridiculous.

Like that day in the delivery room. That wave of something that had clearly been magic. Neal immediately discounting Emma as the producer, instead considering himself guilty of passing something unwanted to his son.

But it had been her all along.

He couldn't dwell on it though. What it all might mean. Because explaining why August was trying to find her _started_ with his own history. Because she would, inevitably, want to know why he was so willing to take August at his word.

And getting her to believe that another world _with_ magic actually existed?

Fucking impossible.

Emma credited him with teaching her how to believe in things again. He had helped open her eyes to hope and faith and chance – jumping in when they had no guarantees. And through hope and faith and chance they had built a life together.

(Maybe that was why it felt so fragile now.)

He ran the tea pot under the faucet and turned on the stove. He took two mugs out of the cabinet and got out the ingredients for hot chocolate. The way Emma liked it. It would be a feeble attempt at a peace offering, but it helped relax her too.

He somehow doubted it would do much good now.

He had screwed up, rocking their peaceful life together in the process. August's screw-up, he assumed, reached farther back, potentially damning all the former occupants of the Enchanted Forest. But even that Neal couldn't fully place the blame on him. No child should ever be tasked with leading a crusade, left alone in a foreign world with another child in his care and no one left to guide him along the right path. Of course August had strayed, cracking under the pressure.

(Neal would have done anything to save his children, yes, but pressuring them with the weight of saving a whole world would only damn them and there was _always_ another way.)

Never telling Emma the full truth, though? That _was_ on him. And Neal didn't have a good excuse. Yeah, he knew that the chances of her believing him were remarkably low, but that had served as his excuse, the thing he had hid behind while he let his fears and insecurities make the actual decisions, worried that she wouldn't believe him and fearing that, in the face of the truth, she would just up and leave, knowing that, when faced, with something she didn't understand, Emma always fell back on her first instinct to run.

And the thought of losing Emma scared him more than anything. Except, obviously, something happening to Porter and Carina.

He settled on the porch, desperately needing the fresh air, and waited, knowing that he wouldn't have to wait long in the nippy October air. And, as suspected, Emma arrived _before_ the promised deadline, and Neal shot up, approaching the bug before she could even fully park.

"All clear?" she asked, voice deceptively neutral as she stepped out of the car, Neal gathering a sleeping Carina up out of her booster seat.

He gave a curt nod as Carina shifted, settling against his shoulder, smelling like flowers and chocolate.

(August had left, but he would hardly say they were clear.)

"I'll put her to bed," Neal told her as they slipped into the foyer, Emma locking the door with a forceful click. He nodded toward the stove. "The water should be about done if you want to finish the cocoa."

She didn't say anything, just walked briskly over the counter. He hovered, just a moment, _hoping_ , but Emma turned her back, reaching for mugs he had already set out, and awkwardly Neal passed through the kitchen to the old stables, finding Carina's girlish room and settling her down on her bed.

He lingered, perhaps longer than he should have, stroking his daughter's hair, taking in her features.

(It all seemed so fragile.)

"Daddy?" she murmured sleepily, a tiny fist rubbing at one of her eyes as she squinted up at him.

"Go back to sleep, Care Bear," he whispered, kissing her forehead, tugging the covers up and over her.

"Marmy's upset."

It wasn't a question.

"Not with you, sweetheart," he promised, smiling reassuringly as he swept her bangs aside. "Did you have fun at Susan's? Before you fought?"

"We played games. Susan said I cheated, but she kept making up new rules." The passion she felt about this came through clearly, even when she ended on a giant yawn, before squinted up at him, suspicion taking over her features. "Are you and Marmy in a fight too? Is that why she's upset."

"Marmy and I just had to contend with a few new rules ourselves, that's all," Neal said, choosing his words extra carefully. "We'll work it out. Just like you and Susan."

They would. They _had_ to. Emma had known him long enough. She had to know that this wouldn't suddenly change him or her or what they had.

(He wished that more of him actually believed that.)

(He _wished_ that he had told her sooner.)

"Nah huh," Carina said defiantly, shaking her head, "I'm never speaking to Susan again."

"Well, that's too bad," said Neal, as if he believed that it truly was a travesty (and not just a young squabble that would get resolved when they traded snacks. Or because they forgot they were even mad at each other.) "I liked Susan. It'd be a shame if we never got to see her again."

Carina shrugged and let out another big yawn.

"Get some sleep," he murmured, pressing another kiss to her forehead. "Love you, Care Bear."

Her eyes drifted shut. "Love you too, Daddy."

He smiled softly, shutting the door behind him, and forced himself to turn in the direction of the kitchen. But really, a part of him wanted to run. To protect his family. What Neal had expected August to say merely skimmed the surface of the story he had told. A story that connected him and Emma in a way that he could have never predicted. But he couldn't fight against it. It was bigger than _just_ his father. It was even bigger than magic.

It was destiny.

(And destiny was a bitch.)


	4. Chapter 4

Neal found Emma sitting stiffly in her usual chair, fingers tapping the mug Porter had made for her years ago.

He could see it.

The fact that she had already prepared herself for the worst.

(Neal had gone back and forth on what this story would qualify to her. Good. Bad. Miraculous. Evil. It had everything stuffed into one wrapper that Emma, Neal knew, would find unbelievable.)

Despite desperately craving the comfort of her touch, he forced himself to settle into the chair opposite, a table between them as he wrapped his hand around the mug she had set out for him, warming icy hands because it felt like all the heat had been zapped from his body, leaving him cold and empty.

He still didn't know where to start and a silence, awkward and deafening fell over them, until Emma broke it, words slicing through the tension.

"I understand that you thought our family might be in," she held her hands in front of her, hands representing her search for exactly the right words, "some sort of danger so I can forgive you for breaking the rules. But –"

Neal furrowed his brow, stuttering out a confused "Breaking the rules? What, Em –"

"Rule Number Three," said Emma dismissively, "but One trumps it so it doesn't matter."

He desperately tried to follow her logic and could only assume that Emma must think he and August had formed some sort of plot in her absence. He hadn't promised August though. Not beyond his vow to talk to Emma. But the choice would remain with her. He had meant that.

"Em, baby, I didn't decide anything without you," he said, doing his best to explain, "the only thing I did was listen and, maybe, make a promise to pass some information alone."

"But you decided to talk to him. Without me," corrected Emma, her voice steady and calm and hard as it cut through the silence. "And I've been trying to think. Desperately trying to figure out when I ever made you feel like you couldn't tell me _anything._ "

"Emma," said Neal sharply, needing her to understand this truth, "you didn't. It had nothing to do with you. It's just … it's not something you _just_ tell."

"After eleven years?" Emma asked, a brow raised and Neal swallowed, ducking his head, unable to look at her because he didn't have an answer to that one. Not a good one. "After eleven years, Neal, why couldn't you tell me?"

Fear and vulnerability coated her words, making her sound small, and Neal abandoned his hot chocolate in favor of reaching out to Emma, crouching down beside her, arm snaking around her shoulder, leaning desperately against her temple.

"Because of me," he murmured somewhere near her eye, "because I was scared. Most of my life, Emma, I've run from this, okay. And I finally got to a point in my life where I didn't have to think about it. I didn't think I would have to think about it ever again. I didn't want to bring it up. But more than that – I was scared of what would happen to us if we did."

She sat stiffly, arms stretched out straight in front of her, hand glued to her mug. Unmoving. Until she moved her head, just slightly, Neal feeling her cheek brush past his hair as she settled her forehead against his, just shy of looking him straight in the eye, instead landing on his bruised knuckles.

"You're hurt," she noted, forcing him to glance down and actually remember the throbbing in his left hand.

"Don't worry about it," said Neal having mostly forgotten the pain himself. "This is –"

"You should get the first-aid kit," Emma cut-in briskly, "if we don't clean it, it'll get infected."

And while Neal knew her well enough to know that she was diverting, delaying the conversation, he stood anyway because he didn't want to have this conversation either.

Despite having two active kids whose choice of activities meant that, on a regular enough basis, they came home with their share of cuts and bruises, they never really had to update the contents of their medicine cabinet. Even doctor recommendations got ignored in favor of the notable observation that their kids shook colds as quickly as they caught them while their cuts tended to fade, never requiring a new Snoopy band-aid, despite Emma's diligent efforts to change them in the recommended time frame.

They just bounced back quickly. Porter always. And, despite her extensive medical record before coming to live with them, even Carina …

 _Shit._

He remembered thinking it, back during the height of Carina's nightmares, when Emma had made a joke about their apparent co-dependency, even while, asleep, but just like he had in the delivery room he had ultimately brushed it off. Because of things like habit and comfort. Because impossible.

Though, after tonight, obviously not.

"But why?" Emma asked after he had returned, obviously picking up right where they left off, popping the kit open and Neal winced involuntarily as she removed the anti-bacterial crap.

"Because it took everything," Neal told her, the fingers of his uninjured hand threading through her hair as he found her gaze, refusing to let her break it. "It _always_ takes everything. So many times over and I can feel it now, baby, and it's trying to take this too."

"If you'd just told me –"

"I did tell you, Em," he insisted, a reminder, hissing inward when she sprayed his hand twice. "I told you everything that made me, _me._ Granted some of the details are a bit different, but they are so insignificant to the story. I need you to understand that I told you what I could, Emma. Please tell me that you understand that."

She held his gaze and for a long moment they just looked at each other, Neal silently willing her to understand.

(And knowing that she wouldn't.)

"I don't think I can," she said quietly, turning to face him fully now, hand finding his in her hair, clutching it tightly. "Not until you tell me."

And while he had hoped differently, he had expected as much. Neal, mostly, took things on faith. But Emma needed the whole story and an added dash of proof before she reached any sort of resolution.

He stood up and reached a hand out to her.

"Not here," he said when she hesitated.

She took his hand. He led her up to their bedroom, stopping in front of the wall, looking up at their Lover's Knot. When Emma first hung it, it hadn't been any bigger than the frame of their bed, but now. _Now_ it extend beyond that, curling, growing up and down, and out, reaching to the wall's edge in both directions. Vibrant green leaves offsetting sturdy brown branches.

"Look," he told her.

" _Neal_ ," she stressed his name, warning him to get to the point with a single word.

"Did you think it would actually grow?" Neal asked, "When you first hung it, I mean?"

Emma shrugged, "A little bit maybe. I mean I don't know much about plants _so_ ," she furrowed her brow, "Neal, what –"

"It shouldn't, Emma," he told her, "Not like that. Not when we don't even water it."

"Well, I special ordered the branches," she said practically, simple and precise, offering an explanation.

"It's a symbol of our love," he told her and then, because he could feel her getting impatient, frustrated with the fact that he wasn't just telling her whatever he needed to tell her, he took her by the hand, leading her to the window, where he fingered the dreamcatcher they had liberated from a borrowed hotel room back in Portland. "Do you remember what you told me? About dreamcatchers?"

She gave him a hard look, a cross between _duh_ and _get to the point._

"You said it was supposed to keep the nightmares out and only the good ones in," he said, repeating words that didn't really need repeating.

"It's an old superstition, Neal."

"Is it an old superstition that," Neal started, fingering a feather, "that the nightmares all but stopped as soon as we adopted it as our own?"

"You've –"

"Not when I'm with you," he stressed. "Not after we got this."

He didn't know if it was the dreamcatcher itself, or Emma merely drawing inspiration from it, empowering it.

(He would have to guess the latter because the one he had given Carina hadn't proven itself nearly as powerful, proximity he imagined, an issue, even for subconscious attempts, because nightmares had still plagued him during those weekends without Emma and Port in New York.)

"Neal, the mind does weird things, if you think something is …"

He didn't let her finish forming the logical leap from A to B, cutting her off, moving on to his next point. He didn't want to overwhelm her, but he knew he needed to overload her brain with the possibilities if he hoped for this to work. The more time she had to think, the more likely she would come with a plausible alternative.

"The kids don't get sick."

"Yes they do," she said flatly.

"Not the way most kids do," he insisted before stressing, "not the way Carina did. Before she came to live with us."

"Yes, well, she's in a healthier environment now," Emma murmured.

"They always want you when they're sick or hurt," he continued, noting the weaker defense and moving on.

"I'm their mother," she said, "of course they do."

"Except you'd think their father would do in a pinch if mom's not around," he continued, "but do you know what Porter said when I tried to rub his belly so we didn't have to wake you up. He said _Mommy makes it not hurt_. And do you ever notice how you never have to change the kids' bandages."

"Just stop," she snapped, defensively.

But he couldn't. Not now.

"You check them, have everything ready to clean it out again, only to take the band-aid off and realize it was like nothing was ever there at all." He stepped forward, hands weaving into her hair, pressing his forehead against hers, _knowing_ that he was treading dangerous ground because it had become one of those unspoken rules, something they never ever talked about because it hurt too much, "and when Porter fell off that stupid …"

" _Don't,"_ she warned, voice hard.

"And the doctors said they didn't know if he would wake up." The words hurt, like a raw and open wound and he had to force them out, even as he saw the pain that crossed Emma's face, her eyes squeezed shut as she desperately tried to pull out of his grasp. He held on tighter, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. Because he couldn't not comfort her. But he needed her to hear this too. Needed her to _listen._ "And that even if he did they still didn't know if he would be the same. But he did wake up and he was fine. Do you remember? We weren't even in there five minutes and then he was awake. And he was Porter. It completely threw the doctors for a loop. They called it a miracle."

He stepped back, taking a hand between his and held them over her heart. "But clearly they don't understand the power of a mother's love."

Her features shifted, pain shifting into something straddling the line of disbelief and downright uncertainty. As if she couldn't quite decide if he was having her on or not. "You think what? My mere presence woke him up."

Well, not exactly _that_. No.

"I think you healed him," he told her, "just I like I think you heal their cuts and scrapes. Just like you heal their colds and make the pain go away. Just like I think you've been catching my nightmares. Just like I think you are so happy that it can't help but burst out of you and make those vines grow."

He didn't always. He didn't think anything of it really. But now that he had and now that he knew the truth. It made sense. All of it. Memories flooding his brain.

"I'm not happy now," she said flatly. "And I don't understand. I don't understand what you thinking those things mean. I don't understand what any of this has to do with Booth showing up here."

She spoke with increasing volume, tearing her hand out of his grip and Neal tried to calm her with a gentle reminder, " _Carina."_

Emma gave a sharp nod, returning to a normal volume, but her voice still held a note that bordered on hysteria, her fear bubbling to the surface. "And I especially don't understand what this has to do with whatever it is you haven't told me."

"I'm saying that you have magic," Neal said, voice gentle but firm. "And that Booth came here to tell you that you were from a place called the Enchanted Forest. And I know he's not lying because that's where _I'm_ from."

"Oh," she said drily, "Are you a wizard, Harry?"

(They should have never forced her to watch those movies.)

"That's why I didn't tell you," said Neal, ignoring the jab. "Not because I didn't want to but because being from another world that's _magic_ is unbelievable."

Emma pressed her lips together. "What do you want me to do with that, Neal?"

"I want you to listen," he said, simply, looking at her with pleading eyes. "Just like you always do."

She gave him a long, hard look - As if deciding whether he had any right to her time – before she sighed and settled onto their bed, right at the edge, sitting stiffly in a way that almost never did in the bedroom. But she was trying. That was all he could ask for.

He sat down next to her, forcing himself not to close the distance between them, knowing that she needed space as she tried desperately to process everything.

"I grew up in a place called the Enchanted Forest, Emma, and while it's not another country it _is_ another world. A world where we had kings and queens, men went to war with ogres and, yeah, a place where magic existed." He swallowed thickly. "It was the war with the Ogres that I got drafted. Another battle in the war my father ran from."

"Ogres?" Emma asked, features scrunched in confusion. "Like Fee Fi Fo Fum."

He tried not to smile but he felt his lips inch up despite themselves.

"Same realm," Neal agreed because close enough.

She raised a brow. "And you're telling me that in your world they expected children to fight these things and win?"

"Well, you go with what you got when you're on the losing side," said Neal, "but my father was of the same mind as you. He knew I would die but when we tried to run we ran into someone that offered to help us. He told us of The Dark One and his dagger and that anyone who had the dagger would be able to control The Dark One and, by extension, his power."

Neal sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Long story short. It was a trap. To be freed from his captors The Dark One needed to be killed by his own dagger. But the power didn't die with him. It was passed on to the person that killed him. My father."

"He changed," Emma surmised, voice carefully neutral.

"Yeah," Neal said, the word heavy and weighted down. "I was told that if I brought him to a Land Without Magic his curse would break. The only thing I had to do was get him to go through the portal."

"He promised …" He felt Emma's gaze turn on him as the words caught, her hand brushing against his on the bed until she threaded their fingers together, squeezing tightly. "He promised that he would do it. If I found a way to break the curse without killing him, he promised he would do it no matter what. We shook on it and everything."

He glanced at their hands before looking at Emma whose gaze was somewhere far away.

"It wasn't a round trip. Just a one way ticket and the flight was booked." He pressed his lips together. "At least it was supposed to be. Anyway, that was what I didn't tell you. And I didn't because I didn't think it mattered. Or maybe because I didn't want it to."

Magic had ruled so much of his life and taken so much from him that, in his attempts to run it he had ignored signs of it in his own home.

"August wasn't here to see me though," he said carefully, squeezing the hand holding his. "He claimed that you're from that world too. Your –"

Emma turned, looking at him sharply. "Neal, that's insane."

"I know it's a lot to take, baby …"

"No, Neal, just _think_ about this logically for a second. Okay. Think. Even if you are from this," she released his hand, making a frustrated gesture, "world with _magic_ . And I'm not saying I believe that, but let's say that you are. Then what are the chances that I'm from there too. And not only _that_ what are the chances that we just happen to meet."

"Fate," he said simply. They had had this discussion before. Well, argued. Heated debate, really. But they had talked about it in a passing sort of way, Neal positing that things happen for a reason while Emma rolled her eyes (kinda like now) and argued that things like fate and destiny took away things like choice and she didn't want to live in that kind of world.

Most days, he _wanted_ to live in a world without fate.

He just couldn't believe that it didn't exist. Not knowing what he did.

Emma would either accept it or she wouldn't.

And she didn't, her words dripping with sarcasm, as she said, "How romantic."

He couldn't quite gage her reaction to the rest of it, unsure if she had bought any of it enough to at least give it consideration, a part of him wanting to suggest that they sleep on it because he could feel exhaustion beginning to pull at him, finally catching up to him after the long evening. They'd both feel better after sleep. Except they had to pick up Porter in the morning and it would get put off until tomorrow night at the earliest. Putting it off, giving into demands of sleep, easing her into this wasn't an option given the time table August had left them with.

He started hesitantly, carefully, as if he hated the idea of burdening her with this. "There was a curse –"

He barely got the words out, however, when Emma's voice, cold like ice, cut over his. "Who is he, Neal?"

Neal cocked his head, brow furrowed in confusion. "

August," she clarified. "Who is he? An old partner? Someone you screwed over before you met me?"

The disdain behind her words acted like a slap in the face, throwing him for a loop, and he stuttered out a defensive, "No, Emma, haven't you-"

"Did he threaten you?" she said, talking right over him. "Is that why you're doing this?"

"What I'm doing, Emma," he said, his voice a bit harsher than normal, but he couldn't quite follow her thought process. He knew that he deserved her accusations, but he'd much rather stick to the things he did do, rather than the ones he didn't. "Is trying to tell you the truth."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have started with something a bit more believable," she said flippantly and he understood then what she was doing.

Any other time, maybe, Neal would have reacted rationally and recognized her fear rather than letting his own insecurities rule his. Because Neal rarely lost his temper, but everything had started to spin out of control, and he felt himself go with it, his voice rising as he snapped, "And maybe you should stop and listen to what I'm saying instead of trying to run from the truth."

" _Calm down,"_ hissed Emma, issuing the reprimand through narrowed eyes, Neal's jaw tensing in the effort to reign in his anger.

"Just," he looked to the side before deciding another tactic. "Will you let me get to the end? Before you make up your mind?"

"Fine," she said shortly after leveling him a look, staring him down and sizing him up, clearly trying to figure out if he was lying, "weave your little fairytale."

The words stung and, running a hand wearily through his hair, he murmured, "Nice attitude, Em."

"You're not doing yourself any favors, _Baelfire_ ," she said, practically spitting the words out, the venom accompanying his name surprising him because, despite teasing him about the oddity of it from time to time, she had never used it against him before. It hurt, really, that she'd go there even now. Which she sensed, immediately following it with a regretful, "I'm sorry."

But he understood then that this, her defensiveness wasn't about him at all, but her own fear, twenty-eight years of not knowing the truth finally culminating in this one moment, in a way that she couldn't have possibly anticipated.

That didn't make it hurt less.

"Forget it," he told her, suddenly wishing they could have just forgotten this whole evening. He should have listened to her and sent Booth backing with an unapologetic _go to hell._

"Yes," she agreed, turning, looking at him desperately, "Let's forget it. You don't have to tell me the truth. We can just go to Effie. She'll figure out a way to take care of Booth. He'll never bother us again."

Emma, very clearly, wanted this conversation to end. _Wanted_ it to stop. _Wanted_ things to go back to the way they were before.

And that desire was exactly the reason she _needed_ to have it.

Not because Booth said so. Not because of destiny and curses and whatever else. But because of Emma. Because she had spent her entire life searching for one answer and, at the same time, fearing it. He couldn't erase twenty-eight years of hurt, he would never try to belittle what she went through, but this could give her peace of mind and she deserved that.

"Except I'm not lying, Emma." He kneeled down in front of her, taking a hand between one of his, the other gently stroking her cheek before guiding her chin, doing his best to get her to just look at him. To see the truth in his eyes. "You don't have to be afraid of this."

"I'm not afraid," she said petulantly, still not quite meeting his eyes.

"You are," he said, following her line of sight. "Because Booth said he knew who your parents are."

"He was lying."

"And I'm telling you that I don't think he was," Neal said firmly, "and I _know_ you trust me. You just don't want to. Because you're afraid of what truths you'll have to face if the story changes. It's okay to be afraid, Emma. I'm scared. Every part of me is telling me to take you and the kids and run-"

Emma's eyes brightened, cutting him off, "Let's do that."

He smiled indulgently. "We can't."

"Why?" she asked in a strange mix of pouting skepticism.

The words burst out of him, Neal not planning to say them, but they just fit. "Argo Navis."

Emma groaned. "You gotta stop using your magic story."

"You said _magic_ ," He grinned, pointing a triumphant finger at her. "You think it's magic."

"No," said Emma slowly, the word softened as she showed the bare hints of a smile, "but you clearly do. You try to apply it to _everything_."

"Not everything. Only when it fits," he said, pointedly ignoring her responding dry look, adding, somewhat defensively, "it's a good story."

She rolled her eyes, and then, teasing, "I'll have morning sickness and you'll be like _don't worry, Em, that's nothing. The crew of the Argo battled sea sickness for forty days and nights._ "

It made him giddy, the thought of Emma pregnant, and the thought she was already referring to herself as such, even if she meant sometime in the future.

(They might have to put it on hold.)

"And then you'll come down for breakfast one morning," she continued, her smile a growing a bit wider, "and it'll be the crew of the Argo didn't have to eat cereal for breakfast."

"I've never complained about cereal for breakfast," he said, grumbling, and anyway, they had gotten significantly off track. And he honestly couldn't tell if Emma had diverted him purposefully or if it simply meant she had begun to warm to the things he'd shared. "I was just saying the crew of the Argo probably had their own reservations about sailing through a passage that had taken every ship before it. But they didn't let their fear rule them and, maybe, if we face ours down we'll surprise ourselves." Emma

She sobered, the smiling fading, and she fell into silence before asking, voice vulnerable and quiet, "He told you why didn't he?"

"Yes," he said softly.

She looked him dead on, jaw tensing, and clearly on guard, waiting for the worst. "It doesn't change anything. Not what I've been through. How I feel about them."

"No," he agreed, understanding that truth better than most, "but you still deserve to know the truth, baby."

"I don't believe in magic," she added.

"I don't need you to believe in magic," Neal told her, taking a risk and threading their fingers together once more. "I just need you to believe in me."

She hesitated. And while he knew, almost completely, that it had more to do what he had to tell her rather than him specifically, it still caused a twinge of hurt.

"Okay."

He pressed his lips together into a thin smile, "Okay. Come here then."

He settled back on the bed, laying down, holding his arms out to her in an invitation, and again she hesitated, but he knew she hated the distance just as much as he did, and he desperately wanted to erase the wedge that had appeared between them, leaving him cold. _Alone,_ almost. Despite the fact that they occupied the same room, sitting on the same bed.

"There was a curse," he told her, voice low and gravelly, hot against her ear. The way he knew she usually took comfort in. She had laid, not face to face as they usually did, but she let him wrap his arms around him, Emma stroking the skin of his arm with absent fingers. "A curse that took everyone from the Enchanted Forest _here_ , trapping them in a place where time wouldn't move and they would have no memories of who they were, the things they had done, the people they had loved."

The fingers stopped and Emma flinched, letting go of a shuddering breath, Neal tightening his grip, doing the only thing he could in that moment – remind her that she wasn't alone.

"But all curses can be broken," he continued. "A prophecy was made, predicting the events that would lead to the end of this one and, more specifically, the girl who would ultimately break it. But first they needed to get her to safety. The plan was for her mother to go with her, but this girl, stubborn as she was, came a little earlier than planned. So they sent her ahead to this world. To save her. And then, maybe one day, she could return and save them."

He swept aside blonde hair, pressing a kiss against her neck, letting his forehead land on the back of her shoulder, head turning, his cheek rubbing against it, waiting. Letting her digest (or try to) what he'd just told her until, finally, turning in his arms, leaving them nose to nose, asking, "How?"

 _How_ could refer to a number of things and Neal's brow furrowed in response. "How what?"

"How do I break the curse?" she asked simply and already he could hear in her tone the seeds of doubt.

"I don't know."

"Where then?"

He knew then that she didn't believe him and that, without any concrete answers or proof that this town existed somewhere, out there in the world.

She smiled tightly. "Don't you see, Neal. He told you a story. And you're gullible enough –"

"That's not fair, Em," he cut in, sitting up, jabbing himself in the chest harshly, "I know what I've been through."

"Okay," said Emma practically, sitting up with him, "you said that in this place time doesn't move. So what? I'm guessing these magic Enchanted Forest people haven't aged in twenty-eight years."

He could follow her line of thought but, reluctantly, despite knowing it was a trap, confirmed her assumption anyway. "Yes."

"So why haven't we heard about it?" She retorted. "Town with a bunch of immortal, ageless people. That shit would be all over the news."

"Magic would protect it, Emma," he said, though he knew by now that he was fighting a losing battle, "My guess is that the curse made it unplottable."

"Yeah, okay, _sure,"_ she said glibly, before pointing up, directing his attention to the skylight, "except we live in a world where I can look up our house – _any_ house – on a map. You think that they missed an entire world of people. Or that they saw it and thought, hey, we don't know what that is. Better ignore it."

"The magic would-"

"Protect it?"

"Make it invisible," he said pointedly, finding it more and more difficult to _not_ take her jabs personally. He knew that they still came from that self-protective instinct, Emma desperately trying to protect herself, but he didn't appreciate her treating him like an idiot.

"So there's this hole in the middle of the world that no one thinks is odd?" retorted Emma, "c'mon, _Neal._ "

Jaw tense, he repeated his earlier words, "I know what I've been through."

"That's the thing, Neal," she said, wearing a sad smile, "I'm not sure that you do."

"Emma-"

"Or you do," she continued, sounding disappointed, "and you're saying it anyway."

" _Emma-"_

"I need to," she made a frustrated gesture, anger meant she had even harder time finding the right words. "Think. _Alone."_

He felt fear bubble up, returning with a vengeance. Emma may not have liked the things he'd said, but at least she listened. Now she wouldn't even do that.

"Please just listen –"

She cut him off with a loud, forceful, " _No_ ," before stalking to the door, pushing it open, waiting, not quite looking at him. "I think you should sleep downstairs tonight."

He squeezed his eyes, _painfully,_ a sick feeling settling in his stomach. The handful of times they had slept apart in the past eleven years had always involved some sort of necessity. But never anger. He forced himself to walk out the door, ignoring his instincts, hating the way she pointedly looked away when he passed her. Behind him, the door slid close with a forceful click.


	5. Chapter 5

Emma didn't sleep.

She'd probably be better off if she did, letting herself rest, decompress and, maybe then she could look at things with fresh eyes in the morning. Unfortunately, she had never had much luck with the whole unwind, turn her thoughts off _thing_ . Even Neal, who usually took on the role of playing sensible _for_ her when she got obsessive and therefore knew exactly how to get her to destress, had to put some extra work in when she got like this, her mind running off in every which direction, Emma finding it impossible to reign it in.

Sometimes she could outrun the thoughts by keeping herself busy with mindless tasks that wouldn't let her think. But she could only do so much at three in the morning without waking up Carina. She paced, back and forth, trying to rid herself of the energy that had built up over the course of the night, energy that had fried her nerves leaving her antsy with an added dose of confused as she waffled between hurt and anger.

First fate. Then magic. Emma had thought, maybe, she could take Neal's words at face value. Accept them as this delightful little quirk because _oh_ , he believed in magic. _Funny._

It wasn't funny.

She didn't find it remotely funny. Because he had lied to her. He couldn't have possibly told her the truth.

She had always known of course that Neal carried a certain sense of optimism, contagious enough that it had managed to rub off on her (though not to the same extreme). But he had faith and hope and liked to try new things even if they came with high chance of failure. He had that whole belief in something bigger … destiny … karma … higher calling crap. Which Emma didn't share. To the point that they'd get into playful debates about it, but even then he had never tried to make her _believe_ or prove that fate somehow existed. She had just always played it off as one of his quirks – the thing that made Neal _Neal,_ letting him exist in a world without losing himself after getting knocked on his ass one too many times.

But now, rather than just an obtuse belief that things happened for a reason, he had stepped over a line, claiming that she had magical powers and acting as though he actually had physical evidence of said fact when, really, she could explain away nearly everything he had said. The kids bounced back from injury and illness because they were kids with healthy immune systems which she did her best to support by cooking well-balanced meals and playing the part of the dreaded soccer mom, encouraging their interests, several of which, for both Porter and Carina, happened to involve physical activity. Even Porter's accident … the doctor's had admitted to reading the x-Rays wrong or mixing them up, claiming his injuries had never actually been as serious as they claimed.

Their Lover's Knot. Which admittedly had grown large enough that the wall behind their bed had become ordained with an ornate spiral pattern, murky brown turning into a vibrant green. But plants grew, Neal. Especially when they had access to direct sunlight. That good old country air probably helped too.

And his nightmares? While a part of her would like to take credit for his ability to sleep through the night now, she knew that, really, it had less to do with her and more to the fact that she had acted as a sounding board (which any old person could have done), letting him unload the burdens he had carried with him for years, finally having an outlet to talk about his demons. Of course the sleepless night would have stopped that. Time healed, but only when you let it.

And maybe, if he had stopped there, she could have accepted this as another one of his quirky beliefs (as long as he didn't share it with the children). But he had taken it a step too far, crossing a line, accepting Booth's mad rambles as fact, claiming that her parents existed in some cursed place and that her abandonment had been through no fault of their own. The sort of thing that kids in foster homes told themselves because that made it easier to sleep at night. Because it was easier to believe in the impossible than accept that no one wanted you.

She removed her glasses, dragging her palms down her face, as if that could forcibly remove the events of the evening along with the pained, fear-filled look that had crossed Neal's face as he left their room.

It almost, _almost,_ made her want to take it back.

But Neal never lied. Not to her.

So what could have possibly pushed him to start now?

She realized, desperately, that she didn't want to find out.

Neal knew how long it had taken her to overcome what her parents had so callously done to her and yet he had spouted off this ridiculous story, full of holes, one after another, that shouldn't have even made sense to someone as sensitive and open-minded as Neal. And yeah, she called him naïve from time to time, more so in their younger years, but this went above and beyond that, into gullible territory, to the point where this strange man had come in and warped his sense of reality and his own history, forcing Emma to worry about whether or not she should start questioning his sanity.

And if she could trust that he was in his right mind, then how could she possibly trust him with the kids?

Emma hated to question _that_ and that she had already done so several times in one night. But how could she do anything but when she could no longer makes sense of his behavior? He almost felt like a different person, someone she couldn't make sense of because this went beyond breaking one of those rules. Which had hurt, yes, but not in a way that broke her trust. He had done what they always did – put the kids first. He could use that excuse for _this_ … whatever. His behavior had turned into the exact opposite. By trusting some stalker's stories he had taken a turn for reckless that she had seen from him since their Portland days (and even then his worst offenses had always fell on the side of self-sacrificing as he tried to protect her by throwing himself into the line of fire).

And this. _This_ radical turn in his behavior only made her think that Neal knew exactly what he was doing. Something that only cemented her fear because she had seen how scared Neal had been before Booth had even gotten the chance to speak with him alone. Which must mean that Booth knew something about him that not only involved a great deal of danger but also left Neal feeling a shame so deep that he couldn't even share it with her.

He should have known by now that he could. And a part of her wanted to march downstairs and angrily demand the truth from him.

Fear, however, won out. Fear over what could possibly be so bad that Neal would take a decade of trust and turn it against her. And greater than that, fear for her children, Emma instinctively itching to take drastic measures to protect them.

Which just made her sick. Sick _sick._ Like run to the bathroom and throw up that dinner they had just dropped a good hundred bucks on, leaving an acid like taste in her mouth that she desperately tried to rinse out with water and a thorough scrubbing of her teeth. Because never, not before tonight, despite their promise, did she ever have to entertain even the thought of taking Porter and Carina from their father.

She started to strip. Shedding herself of clothes, a strange mix of hers and Neal's from when she had rushed to get dressed … _fuck_ , not even eight hours ago. She started their shower, blasting the hot water, letting it run until steam filled the room, stepping under the shower head and barely flinching when the scalding water touched her skin. Instead she showered, long and hot, scrubbing her skin raw as if only that could cleanse her of the night before. Desperately trying to focus on something, anything that would lend credibility to Neal's sudden shift in behavior. Her stupid brain, however, kept assaulting her with reasons she couldn't trust him, reminding her that for all the things he had told her, he had left just as many details out. His past always just this vague and incomplete thing that shouldn't have mattered but suddenly did.

She stepped out of the shower only when the water suddenly shifted to an ice cold, wrapping a fluffy, yellow towel around her body and moving back into the bedroom, finding clean clothes and brushing out her hair, pulling it into a tight ponytail, something she hadn't had to bother with since Porter had outgrown his fascination with it.

She gathered the clothes from the night before and threw them in the hamper, taking that downstairs, barely noting the muted sounds of infomercials as she passed the closed doors the living room, instead ducking into the laundry room and starting on the loads of laundry that she had neglected, Neal promising to get to it this weekend. For her birthday. Emma, however, needed something to do.

And when she finished putting on the first load, she shut the door behind her and went into the kitchen, starting breakfast. This elaborate feast made up of bacon and eggs and blueberry pancakes. Stacks of them. That, between transferring clothes from washer to dryer and second loads, she would distract herself by perfecting them. Throwing out any that weren't golden brown or perfectly round. Not stopping until Carina wandered into the kitchen at half-past seven, rubbing her eyes sleepily, immediately brightening, uttering an excited thank-you as she took notice of the blueberries in her pancakes.

"What about Daddy?" Carina asked as Emma dumped the leftover in the trash, having only set aside enough for Porter.

"He's not feeling well," she murmured, not meeting Carina's curious gaze, focusing instead on scrubbing the dishes, using more force than typically necessary for the non-stick pan.

(Neal didn't come find her. Didn't try to push it.)

(So … _good._ )

Emma wasted as much time as she could, but in the end she still went to pick Porter up early, announcing with an unnecessary shout that she was taking Carina with her as she passed the living room, prompting Carina to take off in the opposite direction.

"I didn't know you were up, Daddy," she announced, her voice carrying through the house and back to Emma as she switched out the laundry one more time before grabbing her keys and Carina's fur-lined jacket. "Marmy said you were extra tired."

They arrived two hours earlier than expected, Emma citing a family emergency as the reason for knocking on the door at such an ungodly hour. Port rushed out, trying to balance his duffel bag and the unwrapped sleeping bag, Emma relieving him of his burden as he slipped his coat over his pajamas.

"What happened?" Porter asked, brow furrowed, tying his shoes as Emma stuffed his things into the trunk (right next to Carina's things that had gotten neglected the night before).

"Where's Dad?" he asked, abandoning his shoe and straightening as this thought occurred to him. "Is he alright?"

"Your father is fine," murmured Emma, letting him squeeze in through the back seat before climbing in herself.

"Daddy has a tummy ache," offered Carina.

Porter blinked. "What kind of stomach ache? Is he in the hospital?"

"No," said Emma quickly, rushing to reassure him of just that as she backed out of the Hanleys' driveway. "I just … everything's fine."

In the rearview mirror she saw Porter shoot Carina a questioning look, who gave a big shrug, and then, as if just thinking of something, leaned over and whispered, quite loudly, to her brother.

"You and dad had a fight?" Porter asked, the words bursting out of him in a clear sign of distress.

Emma hesitated, hating the idea of saying a direct lie to her children, before Carina answered for her. "Daddy said they had new rules."

"What does that mean?" he asked and Carina shrugged, prompting Porter to repeat his question. "What does that mean, Mom?"

Good question. "Are you sure that's what Daddy said Carina?"

Carina gave a big nod. "I remember because he said it after I told him about Susan changing the rules." Emma looked through the mirror just in time to see her eyes widen. "Which I told him over the phone because I stayed at Susan's _all_ night. Right, Marmy?"

"All night, sweetheart," said Emma distractedly.

"Right," said Porter slowly, in that way he did when he assumed they'd gone crazy before mostly letting it drop, the car falling into a tense silence that lasted until they pulled back into their driveway, Carina waving to Mr. Portobello's horses as they rolled their way down long and winding dirt path. She parked and Porter pushed down the passenger seat, letting him and Carina clamber out before Emma could even turn off the car.

"Leave it," said Emma as she climbed out, Porter already bouncing slightly at the trunk of the car, waiting for her pop it so he could dutifully drag his stuff inside. At his confused frown, Emma wrapped an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him to her side, as she nodded in the direction of the house. "It'll wait. Your breakfast is on the counter."

Porter ran when Carina followed it was a happy, "It's pancakes."

Almost always, Emma could find solace in Porter and Carina, their happiness providing a light in her darker moments. Like when she found herself facing a truly difficult case? They were the living embodiment of just how far she had come and giving her that much needed boost to find whatever little thing she had missed to turn the impossible to something that could give some unlucky kid a fighting chance.

Now though, nothing could brighten the dark thoughts, and seeing Porter and Carina happy only seemed to cement what she knew, deep in her gut, she had to do.

She grabbed a suitcase from the hall closet and then disappeared into the laundry room for the fourth time that morning. She pulled out another finished load and then just started stuffing the bag full of anything that, on first glimpse, looked like it belonged to her or the children, ignoring Porter when he ran inside, desperately seeking something before pausing and, with a curious glance at her, asking, "Where are we going?"

She didn't answer him. Because she didn't know.

Just like that sudden, gut-wrenching feeling that she no longer knew Neal.

And if she didn't know Neal then how could she possibly trust him with their children.

She had promised him though (the Neal she could trust) that she would never let him do anything to hurt their children. That she would do anything to protect them. Even if it meant protecting Port and Carina _from_ him.

She had thought, _hoped_ really, that Neal had merely been trying to do the same the night before.

But she couldn't trust that now.

And, as much as it pained her, leaving her queasy, like she might throw up that giant breakfast she had scarfed down like she had thrown up her dinner just hours before, she kept packing, refusing to break her promise to Neal.

"Emma?"

She flinched. Not at the surprise of hearing him suddenly behind her, but rather the betrayal that laced the single word.

"What are you doing?" he asked, the door clicking shut on the heel the words.

She started packing with a bit more force, body tensing to an impossible degree as she felt him hovering just behind her. She could _feel_ the intensity of his gaze, even as she refused to meet his eyes. "We need space, Neal."

"The hell we do."

She reached forward, turning on the washing machine, Neal mimicking the action, switching on the dryer. He hadn't yelled, not purposefully, but panic had laced his words, causing his volume to rise anyway. They had argued in front of the kids before, of course, such things were unavoidable. But it was always over stupid shit.

Never like this.

"I do," she told him.

"Okay," Neal agreed slowly, _carefully,_ "I get it, Em. I pushed too hard last night. And I'm sorry about that. I just panicked, you know, and I didn't know how else to tell you. But we can do what we always do. Take a few days, cool off, and I won't push it. Not until you've had a chance to think."

"But this is so much bigger than that, Neal," Emma argued, and just as he fingered pink frill and a superman t-shirt, she added, "and I don't think you should be around the kids right now."

He stumbled back, as if her very words had slapped him. "You don't honestly think I would hurt the kids."

"No," she said, quick and forceful, because that remained the one things she could trust. "Of course not. Not on purpose. But if you continue on like this. With your … _delusions_. Well, you will hurt them."

"Running will hurt them, Emma," he shot back, taking a step forward, grabbing Carina's shirt and shaking it at her, "taking them from their father will hurt them."

She took the shirt from him, calm and controlled. _Almost._ Only the slightest of tremors shook her hands as she packed it away. "I made a promise to you, Neal, that I would always put our put our children first. Rule Number One, remember?"

His bandaged hand landed on hers and, accusation in his tone, he said, "You're putting your fear first."

"No," said Emma sadly, and while she hated that it had come to this, she didn't actually doubt that _this_ \- leaving, giving Neal time to get his shit together – was the right thing to do. "I'm really not."

"You are," he insisted, softer and without the hints of accusation this time, "and it _is_ okay to be scared, Emma. You just had your entire world-view turned upside down. We both did. But don't run from it. Don't teach the kids our bad habits."

Emma shook her head. "It's not a bad habit if it protects them."

"You mean protects _you_ ," he said pointedly.

"I know what my priorities are, Neal," she said flatly, turning back to folding clothes, "you're the one that forgot."

"I have never put the kids second, Emma," he told her, a sharp reminder, " _Never_."

She dropped a t-shirt, facing Neal dead on, arms crossed over her chest. "But that's what Booth wanted, wasn't it? For me to run away with him and break his fancy ass don't-know-how, don't-know-where curse. I am _not_ going to uproot our lives on a bunch of what ifs and unknowns."

Neal stared at her blankly. "I didn't ask you to."

She cocked her head, giving him her best _oh, please_ look. "But that's what you expected to happen, isn't it?"

He swallowed thickly.

"Yeah," said Emma, the word weighted down, his silence alone a great disappointment. "That's what I thought."

He thought _whatever_ was more important than their children. _Or_ he didn't have enough faith in her to put their children first.

"Then we won't," he said suddenly, desperately, "I'll drop it. Forever, I promise. It'll be like it never happened. Just don't leave. Don't take the kids. Everything will go back to the way it was before, I promise."

She gave him a long, hard look before murmuring regretfully, "except you don't believe that. You're lying."

His jaw set into a tight line before he stepped back, desperately ripping the bandages from his hand, the cloth falling away to the floor.

"Look," he said, holding his hand in front of her, " _look._ "

She let her eyes flicker in its direction and yeah, she didn't see any signs of his confrontation with Booth, but what did that prove, really?

He moved his hand back to his side, body deflating, not needing to hear her voice her disbelief. "We're stronger than this, Emma."

"It's not forever, Neal," she said. A promise. Because even as angry and as hurt and as scared as she was, she could never _just_ abandon him. Not like his parents had. "But we need time."

(And by _we_ she really met him. Just enough for him to get his head back on straight.)

"We don't."

"We do," she stressed, zipping the suitcase closed with more force than really necessary. "I'm doing what you asked, Neal. Please don't make it be for nothing."

She kissed him then. Long and fierce and half-desperate, tasting the salty mix of both their tears, making it a goodbye and a promise, drawing it out and hating that it had to end.

"I love you," she told him, grabbing the bag and moving towards the door, "I'll call you."

"Love you too," he murmured, sound so utterly lost that her resolve nearly crumbled.

But it wasn't forever. She had meant that. They just needed time.

"Who wants to go on a road trip," said Emma after locating Porter and Carina in front of the television, her best smile pasted on her face, the kids immediately expressing their excitement, jumping off the couch and shooting all sorts of questions at them as Neal stood stoically in the background. Emma smiled tightly and added, "then give Dad a hug and a kiss goodbye."

The excitement wavered.

"Daddy's not coming?" Carina asked, her lower lip jutting outward, forming a pout.

"Daddy's not feeling well," Emma told her, a reminder of the reasoning she had laid out earlier.

"We can't leave him when he's sick," said Porter, looking half-alarmed and half-suspicious. "Who will take care of him?"

"He's very contagious," said Emma swiftly.

"But you can make him feel better can't you, Mom?" Porter questioned and something in his tone gave her pause, eyes flickering to Neal long enough to see him raise a pointed brow.

But he stepped forward, ruffling Porter's hair, "It'd make me feel better to know that you two weren't around to catch whatever this dang bug is."

Sniffling, Carina threw his arms around him. "Feel better, Daddy."

Neal hugged her long and tight, and then Porter, murmuring something to both of them that Emma couldn't quite hear, before he walked the three of them to the car (Carina running back inside after remembering her teddy bear was still in her bedroom), hands stopping the door before she could close it. "Drive safe."

Emma smiled tightly and nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Because she didn't want to do this. She didn't. The thought of it killed her, really, because she knew, with all of her heart, that Neal would never do anything to hurt the kids.

Not intentionally.

And therein laid the problem.

"See you soon," she murmured, finally, and closed the door, trying not to think that this marked the end of something they couldn't bounce back from. Instead she picked a direction and just drove, driving straight until she had no choice _but_ to turn, on and on.

(She had thought, briefly, about South. Florida. Maybe to pay Joy and Maya a visit, but that would take _days_ and Emma knew that Joy wouldn't even entertain the thought of her company, instead turning her around and pointing her back home.)

Porter stopped speaking to her. Somewhere around the two hour mark when he realized that the question, "Where are we going?" had no definitive answer and that "Why isn't Dad coming?" ended with _he wasn't asked_ and not actually the repeated _he's sick._

Instead he stared out the window, brushing Carina off when she repeatedly tried to draw him into one of her car games with a mumbled, "not now," while pointedly ignoring Emma's attempts to draw him out by offering to let him pick a place for lunch.

Carina chose McDonald's and, fair enough, because she was the only one that ate.

(Porter was protesting and, in a sure sign of the apocalypse, Emma had lost her appetite.)

She got him a Happy Meal anyway and then made a point not to mention it an hour later when he finally started picking at it.

They passed through Vermont and New Hampshire, the kids eventually falling asleep in the face of having nothing to distract them from the dull motions of the moving car and the blur of passing scenery, nothing exciting to grab their eye save for highways and trees.

Emma hadn't slept and she considered taking an exit and stopping at the nearest hotel. But she wasn't tired, her mind refusing to shut off, giving her a fresh bolt of energy every time a thought she didn't like floated through her brain.

She didn't know what to do.

Usually, when she felt like this, overwhelmed and scared, she could talk to Neal.

She _wanted_ to talk to Neal.

Desperately.

Maybe it was just habit.

Or maybe the distance had finally given her some much needed clarity.

Regardless, she felt the lines of her hardened resolve begin to blur, doubt creeping in, Emma wondering if she had acted too rashly, old habits and past experiences clouding the one of the few things she could accept as an absolute.

She could trust Neal.

"Marmy, can we _please_ go home now?" asked Carina sleepily as Porter stared stonily out the window, "I forgot to say goodnight to Daddy."

Fuck. What the hell was she doing?

"Yeah, sweetheart ," she murmured, hand reaching for her purse, eyes drifting to the passenger seat for one moment, her hand gasping the material, handing it back to Carina. "Why don't –"

Carina screamed, turning Emma's blood to ice, the purse dropped and, for the first time in hours, Porter spoke. Well, shouted at her. "Mom! Look out!"

A wolf (a fucking wolf) stood, staring at them from the middle of the road. Both hands back on the wheel, she swerved, narrowly avoiding the wolf, instead crashing the car into a sign welcoming them to a town called Storybrooke. Smoke bloomed from the engine and, after putting the car in park, shaky hands went for the seatbelt.

"Port, Carina," she called, voice reaching a level of panic she hadn't felt in years. Carina was crying and she turned, trying to account for them, before getting out of the car, shoving the seat forward in a desperate attempt to reach the kids, undoing Carina's seatbelt first, shaky hands combing over her and, seeing no signs of injury, Emma set her on solid ground so she could get to Porter. And he was fine too. He was breathing. He could focus. He just had a cut on his forehead.

"You're okay," she whispered desperately, her finger gently wiping over the blood, trying to clear it so she could see the actual depth of the cut. "You're okay. I'm sorry. We're okay."

It was a bit of a gash. He'd need stitches.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

And then, as if it was nothing at all, the cut faded before her eyes, his skin mending itself, Emma flinching back at the surprise of it, meeting Porter's angry gaze, his features set in hard lines.


	6. Chapter 6

Porter and Carina were fine.

Physically.

They were fine. _Physically._

It had turned into a scene with the sheriff arriving on the heels of the ambulance and, despite her best efforts to get the bug going again so she could follow the children to the hospital, a tow truck was called. She wound up climbing into the back of the ambulance with Porter and Carina, the sheriff calling after her in an Irish accent, "Stay put, Miss Swan, I'll need to ask you a few question after I'm done here."

She didn't know how many variations of "Are you drunk," and "There was a wolf," they could actually have, but _whatever._

Both Carina and Porter received a once over after they pulled up to the emergency room and despite the complete lack of severity _and_ the empty waiting room – the staff still seemed surprisingly flustered to have actual people to care for. Emma kept alternating between staring at Porter's uninjured forehead and the blood on her hands, reminding herself that it did happen, that she didn't imagine it. Even if a tiny niggle in the back of her mind kept insisting that she did. Because she was tired and upset and scared and magic, most definitely, did not exist. But the blood on her hands, she knew, most definitely belonged to her son and yet no one could find a single inch of imperfect skin on either of her children.

(Which thank God. But what was she supposed to do with this.)

Still. Emma had a half of mind to keep them overnight. Just in case. But Carina despised hospitals and spent her entire check-up refusing to release her grip on her stuffed bear and squirming away from the doctor (Dr. Fish or _something_ , Emma hadn't paid much attention beyond the assurance that he had found no signs of injury, internal or otherwise), desperately begging to be let off the table so they could go home.

She got distinctly annoyed when, even after the doctor had finished, Emma still said they couldn't go. "We have to wait for the sheriff, sweetheart."

"And the car's broke," Porter added pointedly.

"Can we at least have something to eat," said Carina, rolling her head dramatically onto Emma's shoulder. "I'm _starving,_ Marmy."

"Alright," Emma agreed, realizing the kids had only had their pathetic little happy meals and she hadn't had single thing all day. A rarity for her. Emma left the kids with a stern _don't move_ and followed a nurse's directions around the corner, finding an empty cafeteria save for a bored looking cashier. She picked out some premade sandwiches and packaged yogurts, got a coffee for herself and the kids some orange juice and paid, returning to where she left the kids, her heart nearly beating out of her chest when she found their chairs empty.

She looked around, frantically, half-forgetting the tray of crap in her hands, before she saw the nurse silently pointing behind her.

"Port, Carina," said Emma furiously, setting the tray down on a table covered in year old magazines, approaching them as Carina, at least, had the mind to look down guiltily. "I told you to stay put."

"Sorry, Marmy," she murmured before her attention moved back to the glass window as Emma approached. "What do you think is wrong with him though?"

She looked at the man. Blond, a little older than herself, and hooked up to far too many machines. A scene reminiscent of what she had first seen after Porter had fallen off that stupid cliff. Her hand moved automatically to smooth out his hair, Porter flinching away angrily as Emma murmured, "I'm not sure, sweetheart."

"He's our very own John Doe," the nurse announced, approaching them from behind, a grim expression on her face. "He's been here as long as anyone can remember. The Mayor herself brought him in years ago and no one ever came to claim him."

Carina looked on the verge of tears, her lower lip wobbling, as she clutched her teddy. "He doesn't even get any visitors?"

"No, unfortunately," said the nurse, "just the volunteers that change the flowers out every once in a while."

Emma glanced down at her hands, the blood now long gone save for a lone stain on the cuff of her sleeve, and wondered. "Could we?" she asked hesitantly, nodding her head at the room.

The nurse smiled and gestured for them to go on in, Emma reminding Porter and Carina to be extra careful about what they touched.

She stood awkwardly, arms crossed as she just sorta stared at him. She didn't know what to do or if she even really expected something to happen. The things Neal claimed she had done had never involved any sort of intent on her part. If they _all_ involved some sort of magic on her part (because some of them had to be a coincidence, right? She couldn't actually stop Neal from dreaming. Could she?) it hadn't been on purpose. They just happened. Even earlier this evening – she had seen Porter's cut heal itself, yes, but it wasn't like she had thought some ridiculous thing to herself like _please heal, this._

Carina, however, didn't even hesitate, just wrapped her arms around him, kissing his cheek and as Emma let out a warning, "Care," while she merely wished him a, "Get better soon, Mr. Doe."

Nothing catastrophic happened so … trust kids to know exactly what to do, she supposed. Emma ran a hand over black hair, smiling gratefully at Carina, and watched as Porter approached the bed. And while he wasn't nearly as enthusiastic in offering affection as his sister, he did murmur his own well wishes just as someone tapped impatiently on the glass.

The sheriff.

"Miss Swan," he said, his features set in a stern line, "a word, please."

Emma lips formed a thin line as she realized that no, a miracle was most definitely not going to happen here tonight, and so merely stepped forward, letting her hand land awkwardly atop the patient's, murmuring a quiet, "Feel better," before leading her children out of the room, nodding at the table where she had deposited their food earlier.

"Are we done?" she asked blandly once the kids were out of earshot. "I _know_ I blew a zero."

(She and Neal rarely drank, only ever really treating themselves to a glass of wine on special occasions, and they had gotten out of the habit of drinking the hard stuff sometime after settling down, need outweighing anything else.)

(But even if they were the types to indulge more than that, Emma never would have done it with the kids in the car.)

"Yes," he agreed, "but I'd like to see your phone actually."

Emma put on her best fake smile and grabbed her purse, digging out her phone and handing it over.

"My daughter made that last call," she said, tone syrupy sweet before she stressed, "last night."

Even if she _had_ gotten distracted, Emma hadn't imagined the wolf. Porter and Carina had both seen it as well. The sheriff, however, refused to believe her.

She really didn't care.

With nothing to officially hold her on, she asked for directions to the nearest hotel, and was pointed in the direction of Granny's Inn. Exactly the kind of quaint little place that Emma hated. But her children needed sleep.

And Emma desperately wanted to call Neal.

"Just the one actually," Emma told the elderly woman ( _The_ Granny she assumed), when asked if she'd like two or three rooms. "I'll share with my daughter."

She didn't really plan on sleeping anyway and she absolutely refused to leave them alone in a strange town. Even if it had that _nothing ever happens here_ vibe. She had already risked _whatever_ too much today.

"Name?" prompted Granny and, at Emma's blank look, she pointed down. "For the roster."

"Emma," she told her, itching to move this along, Carina growing anchor-like in her arms, "Emma Neilson."

Porter blinked up at her and Emma couldn't exactly say what, exactly, had prompted to give a name she never actually adopted other than an annoyance with the small town who had been in up in her business all evening and, well, Neal. She wanted to feel closer to him, she supposed.

"Emma." The voice came from behind her, startlingly Emma to the point that she nearly dropped Carina as she glanced behind her. Even Porter looked alarmed and Emma settled an arm on his shoulder, thankful that he had the mind not to flinch away despite his ever present anger at her. "What a lovely name."

"Thanks," she said blandly, blinking slightly and then squinting because he almost, _almost_ , looked familiar.

It was the vibe, she realized as she noted the way Granny shifted from pleasant to tense, handing over a wad of cash. She had met people like him before. Rich, entitled assholes that used their money to get what they wanted and didn't really care who they used along the way. She smiled tightly and turned back around, making a show of repositioning Carina on her hip. "Are we all set?"

"Enjoy your stay," she said, handing Emma the key, Porter leading the way up the stairs, Emma glancing back only once, startled to find that Granny, her granddaughter, the creepy ass man, were all staring at their retreating form.

Emma locked the door as soon as she got in the room.

She hadn't bothered with the bags having been far more concerned with making sure the kids were okay than emptying out the trunk before the car got carted off, so after tucking an already sleeping Carina into the bed Porter hadn't plopped down on, she turned on the television, turning the volume down low enough so that, hopefully, it would accomplish what Carina needed it too without bothering Porter. She dug her phone out again, but before she could ask Porter if he wanted to call his father, he turned over, facing the wall, pointedly ignoring her even as she smoothed back his unruly brown hair and whispered goodnight.

She probably deserved the silent treatment. Emma knew that. But it still made her ache.

She called Neal. He picked up on the first ring and Emma didn't even bother to say hello.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, the door clicking shut behind her, Emma moving into the hallway so as to not wake Porter and Carina. "I miss you."

"Me too," he whispered, his voice even rougher than usual, "just tell me you're coming back. All of you."

"I was always coming back," she insisted, a reminder as she slid down, her back against the door, before suddenly it all just came pouring out, despite the fact that she had so many new things to tell him. But this was just as important. Because he needed to understand why she left, even if it hadn't been exactly the right way to go about things. "I just … you scared the hell out of me, Neal. Everything you said. It didn't make any sense. I mean, you get that right? It just sounded so ridiculous. And I know you like to believe in things. Things bigger than us. But what you were saying was something else –"

"I know," he agreed, his words heavy and weighted down. "And if you want, we can forget about it. Carry on like before. But if you're asking me to take it back and say it's not true." He sighed wearily and Emma imagined him running a hand through his hair. "I can't do that, baby. I _won't_ lie to you. Not anymore. But I can pretend. If that's what'll keep our family together."

"I believe you," she said, the words bursting out of her, Emma desperately needing to reassure him because that was _so_ very Neal. All of it. It made her heart ache.

She hated that she had ever doubted him.

"So you'll come home then?" he asked, hopeful.

"No," she said because he had misunderstood her only to realize how that might sound and quickly adding, "yes. Yes, we're coming back. But I meant I believe _you_ , Neal. About the magic. It's real."

"You don't have to say that, Em," he murmured. "It's really okay if you don't."

"No, I believe you. There was an accident," and then, rushing to ebb the unavoidable panic, she quickly added. "We're fine. We're all fine. There was this wolf."

"A wolf?"

"Yes," she said, tired of having to keep repeat this. "You can ask the kids when you see them."

"I believe you, Em," he insisted, "Just usually … it's a deer. A fox, maybe. But you're all alright?"

"Yes, the car's a little banged up, but we're fine. _Neal_ ," she said, the word catching in her throat, the events of the day catching up to her, the hand clutching the phone to her ear shaking as she whispered. "I saw it."

"What, baby?" he asked, his voice reaching a tenor that, even across the phone, helped ease her frazzled nerves.

"Porter had this cut," she explained, hand tight on the phone as she quickly added, "he's fine. I had them both checked out. They're fine. But I saw it. And I swear, Neal, it was deep enough that he'd need stitches and then it was just gone."

"You healed him," he said simply.

"I guess," she said, unsure of what else they could call it, "I wasn't trying to. I wasn't even thinking about _that._ It just happened. Is that -?"

She couldn't say the word.

"Magic?" he supplied, sounding somewhat resigned, "yeah. I've never seen it work the way yours seems to, but –"

"How _does_ it work?"

"It wasn't that common, Em," he said, reluctance lining each of his words. "Not even in the Enchanted Forest. My father had to kill a man with his own dagger before he got any power –"

"You don't like it," she realized. And she kept interrupting him, she knew that, but she had so many questions and everything he said kept bringing up more.

"My father killing people?" he retorted drily, "No."

"No," she corrected. "Magic."

He sighed heavily. "It's not you, Emma. I mean clearly your power is instinctive. _Protective._ An extension of you. But all my life, baby, magic and trouble went hand in hand. Everything I've lost? I can tie it back to that crap. Even now. Booth shows up and not even a day later you're running off with the kids."

"That was a mistake," she said, voice apologetic.

"No, Em," he insisted, "I'm not blaming you."

But Emma shook her head. "I shouldn't have done that, Neal. Not like that. And I'm so sorry that I did."

"I should have found a better way to tell you," he murmured.

"I don't think there was a better way to tell me," said Emma and, maybe, she should apologize for not believing him, but she had a feeling that they both knew she would have never accepted the truth until she had seen _it_ for herself. Her mind didn't work any other way.

She sniffed and then, tentatively, asked, "Neal?"

"Yeah, baby?"

She fiddled with a loose thread on her jeans, hating that she had to ask this. "Are we okay?"

"Yes." He didn't hesitate and then, after a beat, insisted, "We will be. We both screwed up. I've been thinking about it, Em, all day. And you were right. I shouldn't have talked to August first. Not without you. And really, I should have told you everything a long time ago."

"I wouldn't have believed you," she retorted.

"Maybe," he agreed, "maybe not. But you wouldn't have run, Em." And when she snorted, he stressed, "you wouldn't have. You didn't run because I believed in magic."

"No," she agreed quietly. The suddenness might have played a part in everything, but his behavior had shifted so radically. Or had seemed too.

Too much had happened all at once and everything just got muddled.

"I meant what I said before," he told her gently, "we can pretend if you want. Go back to the way it was before."

"Do you want to pretend?"

"Yeah, baby, a part of me does." She heard him take a shaky breath. "The idea of seeing my father again fucking terrifies me, Em. And if it was just me I would have told August to fuck off. But it's not. This involves you too. And I don't want to be selfish. But I'm afraid that's what I'll be if I just let this go like you want."

"I don't think it is. Selfish, I mean" said Emma, insisting. "Not if I'm telling you what I want. I gave up on those people so long ago, Neal. It doesn't matter to me who they are, not after what they did to me."

"Even if they were trying to protect you?"

Emma scoffed. "According to August."

"It seems like a weird thing to lie about, Emma," he murmured.

"Why do you believe him?" she asked after a beat.

Neal snorted, a dark, ugly sort of sound. "Because it sounds like the crazy sort of fucked up thing my father would do."

Emma shook her head. "But before that. You were ready to listen. Just because he said your name."

"Because I had to, Emma," he told her, "He shouldn't have known it. And I know I hurt you, baby, when I said I wanted to speak to him alone. I just … if I had to tell you, I didn't want it to be like that."

"Will you tell me now?" she asked. There was a pause and she understood his hesitance. _Really._ But she didn't want him to have to fear her reactions. Not anymore. "I'll listen this time. I promise."

"No, it's not that," he said quickly before letting go of a heavy sort of sigh. "I just … not over the phone."

"Okay." She hated she couldn't keep the disappointment out of her tone.

"Where are the kids?" he asked suddenly.

"Asleep." And then, with something like sadness. "Port's not speaking to me." She sighed. "I don't understand how we got here, Neal?"

Well, she did. But it happened so quickly. Just a day ago they had licked ice cream off each other and decided to, hopefully, have another baby. And then the rug just got pulled out from under them.

"It won't happen again, baby," he said, his words an earnest promise, "because there won't be any more secrets. I'm going to tell you all of it."

She didn't care about that now. It didn't matter.

"Neal," she said instead, taking a long, shuddering breath. "I miss you."

"Then come home, baby," he said, pleading, " _please._ We can work this out."

"I want to," she said, her head leaning back against the wood of the door. "But it's the middle of nowhere and they said it might take a day at least to fix the car." She heard something drop and, worriedly, asked, "Neal?"

"Fuck, Emma." A beat, and then. "Where are you?"

"Storybrooke." She waited a moment and then " _Maine_ ." She said it with an added dose of guilt, because she really hadn't meant to drive as far as she had. It just happened, the anger and the hurt and the confusion ( _fear)_ propelling her on and on until her common sense finally caught back up to her.

"I'll be there tomorrow afternoon."

She should argue with him only because it seemed counterproductive for him to drive the car all the way out to Maine only to have to turn around and drive it back again. But she wanted to see him. She needed to fix this, whatever they had broke, sooner rather than later.

"Okay," she said. "Neal?"

(She had this compulsion. To keep saying his name. To check if he was still there. That he hadn't suddenly decided that no, actually, she had screwed up too big and she wasn't worth his time.)

"I'm still here, baby," he told her.

"I was _always_ coming back," she said, stressing the words because she needed him to know that. To not doubt that.

He sighed heavily. "Don't worry about it, Em."

But she did because he hadn't known. He'd thought she had skipped town with the kids. Just like every other person in his life. And that was her fault. And she couldn't forgive herself for making him feel that way.

"I have to," she started, " _Neal-_ "

He didn't even let her finish. "No, Emma. I should have told you sooner –"

But that was on her too because: "I probably still wouldn't have believed you."

"But you believe me now."

"Yes," she said and then, because she didn't want to lie to him. "About the magic. And the stuff about your father."

"But not the rest of it?" He didn't sound disappointed. Just tired.

"I don't understand it, Neal," she said, matching his weariness. Because talking to Neal, knowing that he could, at least forgive her, let everything catch up to her finally, leaving her exhausted. "But that's not what matters, I don't think."

She would listen now, at least. "No," Neal agreed. "It's not."

"I want us to be okay again, Neal," said Emma softly, picking at a thread in her jeans. "I don't want us to fight again. Not like that. I hate that I said those things to you. And that I just up and took the kids."

"You were just trying to protect them, Emma," he said. "I can understand that."

"Yeah, but Neal, it wasn't just _that._ I knew that it would hurt. And a part of me wanted to hurt you. Like you were hurting me."

It was an ugly thought. One she didn't want to admit to. But he'd been right. Earlier. They needed to be honest with each other. So they didn't make the same mistakes again.

"I'm so sorry, Em –"

She cut him off, because she hadn't been trying to add to the guilt. "No, Neal –"

"Emma," he said, voice stern as he cut her off, "No. I have to – I am sorry, for not telling you sooner. I know you said you wouldn't believe me. But that's not why I didn't tell you. If there was ever one person I wanted to tell it was you … I just. I was scared, you know, of what would happen if I told you."

"Of course you were," said Emma, guilt-ridden, "look how I reacted."

"But that's not an excuse, is it? I held back a part of myself. Because it was easier. Because I was scared. And that wasn't fair to you. Or to the kids. And I am so sorry for that, Emma."

"Are we done with the 'I'm sorry's' now?" she asked. "Can we move on to I love you. And I miss you."

"I love you," he said, and she could _hear_ his smile. Good. "I miss you."

"I love you," she echoed. "And I miss you. I wish you were here. Making up is a lot more fun when we're together."

"Well," said Neal, "What are you wearing?"

"I'm in a hallway, Neal," she said, somewhat regretfully because she liked phone sex with Neal. He had the perfect voice for it. "The kids are asleep. I didn't want to put them in a different room in a strange place."

Even if Storybrooke was the typical sleepy, small town.

"Good thinking." He said quietly. "I hate how quiet the house is without you guys."

She stopped herself from apologizing again. "I'd suggest we keep talking but I don't want you driving on no sleep."

"Well," he said lightly, "if it helps I don't think I'd be able to sleep anyway. Codependent sleepers, remember?"

She snorted in spite of herself before sobering. "Were they bad last night?"

"Didn't sleep."

" _Neal_ ," she chastised.

"I told you," he stressed, voice teasing, "you're my own, personal dreamcatcher."

She ducked her head, a blush rising on her cheeks. "You're a dork," she murmured, before scrunching her features together. "It's weird, isn't it? That I've been doing that all these years without even really realizing it."

A part of her wished she could do something to, like, control it. Like send him good vibes over the phone or something. Then at least he could get some sleep without her.

"At first, maybe," Neal agreed, "but that's so _you,_ isn't it? To protect what you love."

She bit her lip. Thinking of all the ways she had failed to do that tonight. Neal seemed to catch on to this. "Just like today. You were _trying_ to do the right thing, baby. You thought you were. Do I wish things had gone differently? Of course. But we know _now._ We'll learn from it and we won't let it happen again."

She nodded, a bit frantically, before remembering that he couldn't see her. "Okay." And then, because she couldn't help herself. "I'm sorry."

"No more I'm sorrys remember?" he told her lightly.

"Okay, but Neal –"

" _Emma_. It's fine."

She got that, but she just needed to say this one last thing. "I just have to say this one thing."

"You don't," he insisted and knew it wasn't because he liked to avoid things. Not like her. He'd forgiven her already.

(Idiot.)

"I do," she insisted, "because I don't ever want you to worry about me not coming back. I _always_ will."

"I'd rather you just not leave," he murmured.

"Well, yes," Emma agreed, "and I won't. But on the tiny minuscule chance that I do then I want you to remember that I will _always_ come back. It's in the rules, remember? No one gets left behind."

"No one gets left behind," he echoed fondly, "What's that? Subsection H then?"

"O, actually," she said lightly and then, because it was important, she asked. "Do you believe me?"

"I do," he said and, before she could get her next words out, he added, "And don't you dare apologize again."

She snapped her mouth closed and, after a moment, said, "I wish I could see you. I'm afraid to hang up."

"Then don't," he said simply, "we'll keep talking, until the kids wake up."

That sounded nice.

"I wish you'd try to sleep," said Emma practically, "the backroads are awful to navigate. And the wolf."

"Well, I know to keep an eye out now, don't I," he said teasingly.

She smiled fondly, shaking her head at his ridiculousness. "I love you."

"I love you too," he breathed and she could _hear_ his responding smile. "Everything will be alright."

"I know."

And she did. They still had some rough spots to patch over, she knew that, but they had gone through this horrible thing and managed to make it to the other side, relatively unscathed. It didn't really matter what else they faced now because they'd be together.

They talked through most of the night, until Emma's battery started to die and she realized that, even if she could find a port in the hallway, she didn't actually have her charger with her. Neal promised to bring it, along with a half dozen other things that had popped into her head through the course of the conversation. And then, before saying goodbye, he added, the words soft and bittersweet, "Happy Birthday, Emma."


	7. Chapter 7

Please note that this chapter contains adult content.

* * *

Porter snored.

Something Carina complained quite loudly about the next morning as Emma helped her comb her hair. Porter, for his part, merely pointed out that he didn't complain once about having to sleep with the tv on, even if he did have strange dreams about cowboys in the fifties. Sensing something that could turn into a potential argument, Carina showing hints of hurt and embarrassment, Emma swept it under the rug with the announcement that their father would be there later that day. And while she hoped, maybe, that this would put an end to Porter's epic-freeze out, he still barely looked at her as he passed her on the way to the bathroom while Carina _begged_ to call Daddy _right now_ , not stopping until Emma dialed his number into the landline. She caught him outside of Leo and Effie's, Carina pulling the phone out of her grasp before she could even finish getting her _hello_ out.

Carina gave a lengthy, fast-paced ramble of everything they had done since leaving him and then, seemingly at the news that he had made a pit stop at Effie's, she had complained, "I thought you were coming _right_ here, Daddy?" And then, deflating with disappointment, "But you should of bought Phang _with_ you."

After she passed the phone to Porter, Carina wrapped her little arms around Emma's neck, and, with a wet kiss to her cheek, said, "Happy birthday, Marmy," while Porter talked to Neal, in hushed tones, his back to both of them before pointedly hanging up the phone.

Emma tried, desperately, to draw him out during breakfast. But explaining the situation and the hows and whys behind the quick downward spiral posed an oddly daunting task. And, really, she didn't want to do it without talking to Neal first. He understood magic and _whatever_ better than she did, for one, and they needed to discuss _what_ they would say to both Porter and Carina. Emma didn't want to lie, exactly, but parts of it (like your Grandfather is a dark, murderous wizard- _thing)_ didn't seem appropriate for an audience under ten. And really, considering the fact that Neal _still_ had nightmares about it, it didn't seem appropriate for anyone.

Carina had no trouble carrying the conversation and with her stuffed bear clutched tightly in her arms, happily listed all of the things that she wanted to do and show their father once he got there.

(It was exhausting list that had Emma thinking fondly of a nap between instances of recalling everything she had forgot back at home. Like her birth control pills and Excedrin for her unshakable migraine.)

"We're in the middle of nowhere, Care," muttered Porter as he picked at his food, dragging a strawberry through a trail of syrup. "None of that stuff exists here."

"The ocean does," Carina retorted smartly. "I saw it."

"The Atlantic Ocean," Port corrected, pointing his fork for emphasis. "It's October. You'll freeze to death if you try swimming it."

"I'm sure we can find something to do at the beach," said Emma practically, trying to diffuse the argument as Carina's widened like saucers. "And we're surrounded by the forest, Port. Maybe we could try hiking."

Porter huffed.

"I don't like hiking," said Carina defiantly

"Of course you don't," muttered Porter.

"You've never been, Care Bear," Emma reminded her softly, "you might like it."

But really, she didn't know if they could, realistically, get to any of that. If they wanted to get home in time for school in the morning they would have to leave before dark.

(More than likely, though, they would have to take a sick day.)

The fighting, however, continued to escalate. Porter and Carina didn't fight often. Not like this anyway. Porter would sometimes get annoyed when she interrupted time with his friends to try and participate in things she didn't really like, but he usually did more than _just_ tolerate her presence, the pair usually taking joy in each other's company, Porter maintaining that protective big brother instinct that had started when he first started helping her.

Today, however, his mood had made him especially grouchy. To the point that he didn't care who he took it out on. The bear became the first casualty, a spilled mug of hot chocolate landing all over the toy, Carina immediately crying out in alarm.

"Marmy," she complained, scooching back on the seat in the effort to avoid the dripping liquid, shooting Port an unhappy look as she held the bear, dripping chocolate and whipped cream, by one ear. "You did that on purpose."

She could feel the nosey eyes of diner patrons on them as she grabbed a bunch of napkins from the dispenser, throwing them on the spill as Granny's granddaughter (Ruby, right?) approached the table with a wet washcloth.

"Port, you have got to be more careful," Emma chided, offering Ruby a grateful (if somewhat distracted) smile as she took the washcloth, wiping down the booth first. "What if that had still been hot? You could have hurt your sister."

He at least had the sense to look down guiltily as he mumbled an apology to Carina, but before Emma had the chance to comment that she knew he hadn't meant it, she had a chocolate-drenched teddy shoved under her nose. "Marmy, you _have_ to do something."

She looked helplessly at the waitress. "Do you-"

"Washroom's in the back," said Ruby, pointing off to the side, "I'll get these guys set up at another table."

Emma left with a pointed _be good_ as she rushed off to save the worn bear (a weekly even and one of the few mementos Carina still had of her biological mother), apologizing as she noted the maid trying to get a handle on an oversize sheet. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute. We just had a bit of a, uh, teddy emergency."

"No rush," she said, pleasantly enough, a badly folded sheet getting set aside to reveal a very pregnant belly.

Emma nodded at her, offering a bright, "Congratulations," as she wrung out the bear, perhaps a bit of her own desire shining through (even in spite of her own completely harrowing morning). A smile nearly appeared, her lips inching upwards, before immediately falling causing Emma to privately curse at her own stupid assumption. "Oh, fuck. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have –"

She shook her head, blonde hair flying around in her lopsided bun-slash-ponytail. "No, it's … I'm not …" Her shoulders slumped, the girl deflating, as she struggled to stammer out a conclusion before she looked at Emma dead on with a hurt expression and eyes that sang of desperation. " _Not_ one person said that to me when I told them."

Emma frowned, hands tightening around the teddy. "Congratulations?"

She shook her head before pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "And they're right, of course. I'm just a teenager. What do I –"

Emma should have, most likely, just minded her own business. Because really, the longer she left Carina and Porter alone, the higher the chances were of another disaster. But this was Emma's job. She helped people like this young woman every day. Young people who very clearly felt like they didn't have a say in their own life, but desperately wanted it. People who deserved it.

"I was too," she told her, throwing the bear into the dryer, giving it a few minutes to dry, adding at the look of confusion, "when I had my son. I was just a teenager too."

"You were?"

"Yeah," said Emma, taking up the corner of the sheet, smiling softly. "Now, uh, what's your name?"

"Ashley," she said, stepping back, managing to stretch the sheet, successfully straightening it out.

"Ashley," repeated Emma, and again, maybe she should just mind her own business. But Ashley hadn't told her to butt out and while she hadn't come to her _for_ help, not exactly, Emma sensed _something._ Like reluctance and unhappiness and se really couldn't help herself. "Now I obviously don't know your situation. But I can say that I didn't think I could do it either. I would keep repeating all the reasons why in my head. To remind myself that I wasn't the mothering type. I did a helluva a job at it too. But in the process I forgot to think about one very important thing."

The way Ashley looked at her? It was as if she expected Emma to share the secret to life. "What?"

"What I wanted as a little girl," said Emma, walking the corners of the sheet back to Ashley, nodding at her, "I mean. It sounds like you have a family, of sorts."

"Not really," she muttered bitterly as finished folding. "Just a step-mother and her two daughters. And they're not … they don't like me very much." Ashley shrugged. "It's mutual."

Emma offered a smile, one of understanding as they started on another sheet. "I never had anyone. I was just a scared little girl who only wanted one thing. Family. A mother. _Love._ "

Ashely rubbed her cheek on her shoulder, swallowing thickly at just the mention of mother. "Do you think those things are really enough though? I mean, I'm just a maid. I didn't finish school. And the father … he doesn't want anything to do with me."

Emma smiled tightly. "Yeah, I do. But not until I stopped thinking like _that._ I mean, obviously, I don't know you that well. But you, Ashley, are the only one who can decide if you're enough for your child."

"Even if I did," said Ashley, admitting reluctantly, "It's too late."

"It's never too late," said Emma pointedly. "Not yet. If you want your baby, Ashley … if you think you're ready for that sort of responsibility then you need to take whatever is holding you back and just get rid of it. Stand up. Punch back. Just do whatever you need to do in order to overcome the doubt. You'll feel so much better when you do. Everything will be so much clearer."

Emma saw it. Something in Ashley changed then as she understood _exactly_ what Emma had meant, realization crossing her features as ideas formed, building an action plan to overcome her own demons. No one, not even Emma, could help Ashley with that. But everything else?

"And after," said Emma, pulling a card out of her pocket, handing over her name and number, "feel free to give me a call. I'll help you stay on the right track."

"Thank you," Ashley glanced down at the card as Emma pulled the only slightly less damp bear from the dryer, "Emma."

She smiled, squeezing Ashley's shoulder as she passed her on the way. "Good luck."

She found the booth easily enough, presenting the stuffed bear with a flourish, Carina excitedly thanked her, Emma barely hearing her, eyes catching a glimpse of the day's headline from a paper left behind at the next table.

"Guess what, Marmy," said Carina as Emma grabbed at the newspaper, squinting at it through her glasses, blinking rapidly at the article that sat alongside a picture announcing _Broken Clock-Tower Finally Chimes._ But sometime in the night, John Doe had woken up.

Son of a bitch. She couldn't have … Could she?

Carina poked her impatiently and Emma blinked, turning her attention back to her daughter. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"There was another girl here, Marmy. And guess what?" She paused for dramatic effect as Porter took up the abandoned newspaper. "She was adopted too. She thought it was really weird that we're here though. She said no one ever visits Storybrooke. Not _ever,_ Marmy."

"Well, they are a bit off the beaten path," commented Emma, doing her best to ignore Porter's own confused gaze as he looked between her and the paper, instead distracting herself with thoughts of the directions she had given Neal, hoping that the didn't have too much trouble finding the place. She barely remembered the route she took, mostly recalling strange landmarks, her busy thoughts the day before prompting her to take turns at random.

* * *

And he did get there. Well after the promised late afternoon, Emma exhausted after a day dealing with Porter's sour mood and several failed attempts at trying to find _anything_ to keep the kids entertained (an impossible task in a small town full of exactly nothing). But eventually Neal pulled up in their SUV, horn honking, the car unmistakably modern against a backdrop of vintage and rustic vehicles.

"Dad!" Porter shouted, showing the first sign of a smile as he ran out of Granny's, rushing to greet him at the curb, Carina following excitedly behind, curious late-night patrons turning their head toward the window as Emma wasted time, moving to the counter to pay, eyes glancing to the window as Neal climbed out of the car, a big grin on his face as both Porter and Carina rushed into his outstretched arms.

Ruby let out an appreciative whistle, drawing Emma's attention back to the register to collect her change before she walked toward the scene outside, her stomach doing nervous flips despite knowing that she and Neal had ended their conversation on more than good terms the night before.

As if sensing her presence Neal's eyes met hers, his nose buried in Carina's shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around the kids. As if he had missed months or years instead of just the day and Emma bit her lip, hating that he had well and truly assumed the worst, her need for space and time to think had gotten twisted inside his head, turning into an abandonment, perhaps fueled by her own anger, Emma too hurt by a supposed a betrayal she didn't quite understand to see what she was doing.

But she knew. Watching him embrace his children? She _knew_ him. His past and whatever the hell he believed in? It didn't matter. This was Neal. Her husband and the father of their children who would do anything to protect his family. She never had to doubt that.

He pressed a fervent kiss to Carina's head and then Porter's before straightening, offering her a nod and a gentle smile.

"Hey," he said, the simple word heavy and weighted down, carrying the burden of the past few days.

"Hi," she said, feeling young and uncertain and yet relieved too. Because, despite everything, he was here.

Carina, wide-eyed, bounced her curious gaze between them as if watching a particularly intense tennis match while Porter tugged impatiently on his father's hand, desperately trying to pull him back in the direction of the diner.

"You have to meet Granny Lucas, Dad," Porter said, Neal breaking eye contact to give him his full attention. "She makes the best hamburgers ever."

Neal faked a pout, following dutifully behind his children. "Better than mine?"

Porter gave a noncommittal shrug, leading them back to a table, adding, "She has an inn too. That's where we spent the night." He scrunched his nose. "It kinda smells like pine."

"And cats," said Carina, before tugging on Neal's sleeve. "Daddy, guess what?"

Neal turned his attention to her as he slid into a booth. "What's that, Care Bear?"

"I made a new friend today," she told him, settling with her feet under her (a habit both Emma and Neal had yet to successfully discourage). "Her name is Etta and she's adopted too."

Neal raised a finger, flagging down Ruby (Emma really should have considered just opening a tab), as he asked curiously, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Carina confirmed, nodding. "But she doesn't even have a daddy and her mom doesn't like her very much."

Emma frowned at this piece of information, wondering why Carina could have possibly neglected to share this piece of information and how the girls could have possibly exchanged the amount of details they had in the ten minutes she had taken to clean the teddy bear and talk to Ashley.

"Maybe you can get her address then," he suggested, not missing a beat, "send her a letter every once in a while. Like pen pals."

 _Check in_ was unspoken but seemed almost implied, as he nodded at Ruby. "My kids recommend the hamburger."

"She's the Mayor's kid," she supplied, scribbling on the pad. "Henrietta Mills, I mean. I'm surprised she took a liking to you as quickly as she did. She's a bit of loner."

"Sometimes you just need a common ground," said Emma pleasantly, catching Neal's eyes, thinking back to when they first met Carina. How quiet she'd been. Even Emma had been a bit stand-offish before Neal had managed to break through her walls.

He smiled back. Genuine, she thought, and the same smile he always reserved just for her. Emma could find anything to suggest something lingered beneath the surface anyway and when he turned to Ruby, it shifted to something a bit more courteous as she left them with a promise that his food would be out soon. Finally, the smile shifted to something indulgent but loving as he turned his attention back to Porter, who had started hitting his arm frantically. "Yeah, Port?"

"We saw a wolf," he told him.

Neal raised an amused brow, grinning. "I heard."

"It was huge," Carina chimed in dramatically.

"It was standing right in the middle of the road," said Porter, beginning to motion wildly with his hands. "We had to swerve to avoid it and Mo-"

He trailed off, seeming to remember that he wasn't speaking to her, not even to acknowledge her expertise in wolf-swerving tactics. Neal sensed this and, to avoid an awkward moment, asked the next obvious question.

"Was it scary?"

Porter immediately shook his head, but Carina nodded. "It looked right at us, Daddy. And howled."

Neal slapped a hand to his chest and gasped, letting out an overly dramatic. "Oh my." But beneath the surface, Emma could see a hint of unspoken fear, his jaw tense with the knowledge that they had gotten lucky and that things could have been much more serious.

Porter, however, only shrugged bravely before saying, quite practically, "It wouldn't have gotten in the car."

The conversation went on like this for some time, Porter and Carina sharing every little thing they could remember of their time on the road – from the insignificant details of each meal to the dramatic passing of a three car pile-up on the freeway before finishing with a dramatic retelling of the clock tower's first chime in as long as anyone can remember.

"No one was even working on it," Porter explained. "That's what Marco said – he's like a handyman or something. But it must have started working all on its own. Isn't that weird?"

In turn, they asked about home and if he remembered to DVR their favorite shows ("Yes, of course.") and if he changed his mind about bringing Phang, worried that he might get lonely ("He's still back home, Care, but don't worry Uncle Leo and Aunt Effie promised to take good care of him.").

"Do you wanna go see the beach?" Porter asked. "We're right on the coast."

" _Now_ you want to see the beach," huffed Carina while Emma stated the obvious. "We can't now. It's dark."

Neal ruffled his hair. "Maybe later, Sport, that drive wore me out." He nodded at Emma. "It's a wonder you even stumbled on this place. If I hadn't spotted that broken down windmill –"

"Oh, the yellow one?" said Emma, feeling comfortable enough to steal a fry from the plate that Ruby had brought over some time ago. "With the –" She made a vague gesture to indicate the inappropriate graffiti.

"That one," he confirmed, "it was lucky you mentioned it or else I would have missed that last turn. I didn't see one sign for the place on the way here."

She hadn't paid enough attention, really, to notice the lack of signs. If she had Emma would have liked to think she would have had enough sense to turn around.

She itched with the need to talk to him and desperately she hoped that Neal wasn't too tired to talk. Because she still had so much she needed to say and he had promised he would share with her as well.

And, as if reading her mind, he nudged Porter, asking him to stand. "I'm gonna go pay. Maybe see if we can get a second room."

 _Right_.

She nodded, trying not to look too disappointed. She had thought, maybe, even if he was still too tired to talk … well, all that stuff about not being able to sleep without her. He must have sensed this too because he bent down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, murmuring, "For the kids, baby."

* * *

The room they got the kids was connected to theirs, Neal reminding Porter and Carina that they would only knock on that door, and the one leading into the hall should remain locked (barring emergency). They tucked them both in, Porter finally, but only at his father's prompting, muttering a disgruntled "Goodnight" at her as she kissed his cheek while Carina whispered a worried, "Are you and Daddy all better now?" as Emma loosened the covers, untucking them from the mattress.

(They _always_ knew.)

Neal leaned down, playfully pressing his nose to hers, causing Carina to giggle uncontrollably.

"We are," he promised her, "all's forgiven. Nothing for you to worry about." He slipped something out of his pocket. The iPod Emma realized. "To help you sleep."

They walked into the next room in silence Emma, tense and uncertain, leading the way, shooting nervous glances behind her, finding Neal's eyes, intense and impossible to read, trained directly on her, the door clicking shut behind Neal, who reached blindly behind him, turning the lock.

"Neal," she started hesitantly, rubbing sweaty palms over her jeans as she tried to think of where to start.

Neal, however, only shook his head as he approached her. "After."

Right. He was tired. Of course.

But rather than climb right into bed, he was right there, a breath away, fingers sliding her glasses off, setting them to the side and the next moment Neal's mouth found hers, hands pulling her body flush against his, the surprise of it causing her to gasp, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue exploring, fingers threading through her hair as she clutched the lapels of his jacket, nice and tight, as if letting go meant he would simply disappear.

She worried though. About getting caught up in him when they had precious little time for a conversation they desperately needed to have.

" _After."_

"Hm?" she asked and oh, the teeth thing, she liked that.

"We'll talk," he promised. " _After._ "

"How did you –"

"Your brain never stops."

His lips wore a hint of a smile and he had that same intense look on his face. Only this time, rather than add to her nerves, it caused her face to flush.

"Besides, baby," he murmured, nose brushing across her cheek. "We made up. Last night. Remember?"

"Yes," she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed as he brushed soft kisses across her cheek, finding her jaw. "But a lot can happen in a day."

"Yes," he agreed, suddenly quite serious, pulling back forcing Emma to reluctantly open her eyes at his sudden absence. "But not today." He pressed his lips to hers once more, kissing her languidly, a moan eventually escaping her throat. "Which makes this long overdue."

Well, then.

"Maybe you should try harder to distract me then."

He gave her a heated kiss, breaking apart to tug off his shirt and Emma removed her own, meeting him back in the middle, kissing him, hot and frantic, tongues battling because she couldn't help it. Because the fact that he could still stand to touch her and kiss her and make love to her told Emma that things would be okay. Because what Neal had said to Carina had been true – they had forgiven each other.

All frantic and desperation, they kissed, kicking of shoes and pants and underwear, weaving a scattered path towards the bed, Neal falling onto the mattress, Emma following him and straddling his hips, sliding onto his length because she couldn't wait. She absolutely could not stand the fact of not having him inside her a moment longer because even if it hadn't only been a handful of hours since they'd last been together, the epic-ness of their fight made it feel so much longer, creating a distance bigger than the one inflicted on them during their weekends apart during the lead-up to New York.

The pace she set remained frantic and hurried, Emma wanting to feel the strength of the connection in every way possible, fighting his mouth in a bruising kiss, then his jaw, neck, shoulders while Neal latched onto her breasts, tongue and teeth forging paths, hands settling on her hips when exhaustion began to wear on her, sitting up with her, wrapping her legs around his waist until they were flush against each other, bringing the pace to a slow grind, her need for reassurance shifting into his need for connection.

While not nearly as physically demanding, it was still intense. In a different sort of way. The kind that still did a fine job of robbing her of air and between short, gasping breaths she murmured a desperate, "I love you," and then "I'm sorry," as Neal sucked on a spot somewhere near her heart.

He brushed his lips across hers, soft and fleeting. "I love you," he echoed. "And I'm sorry too."

She deepened the kiss, some of that earlier desperateness returning, rocking her hips against his as Neal's hand found its way between her thighs, helping her along until finally she fell over the edge, squeezing muscles that took Neal with her not long after.

After she rolled off of him, landing on her back in the effort to catch her breath before she crawled into his side, legs tangling with his, hand weaving its way through chest hair as she felt Neal's lips pressed against her temple. Blankets were scrunched between them and they were both sweaty and sticky, but that didn't exactly matter right then.

(Even if there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she neglected something.)

"We _are_ okay, Emma," Neal told her, voice barely a whisper. "I may not like what you did, but that doesn't mean I don't understand why you did it. We just –" Emma glanced up at him sharply, expecting a but, "we need to get better at the whole telling each other what's bothering us thing. That's always been our issue, hasn't it? We let things simmer until they can't help but bubble up. This one just happened to be bigger than the rest."

Emma averted her eyes, focusing on their hands as his fingers weaved through hers. Talking about her feelings, especially the ugly ones, was always a scary thing. Particularly when she couldn't articulate them in exactly the way she wanted to. Things would just come out in a garbled mess that distracted from the point as she dug herself a bigger hole. But Neal was right. They needed to try.

"It hurt, Neal," she started. "That after twelve years you'd talk to a complete stranger before talking to me. That you'd let this man into our home and _just_ listen to what he had to say and accept it as fact. That his word was enough to just question everything that we built together."

"Question it? Emma." He shifted them, turning on his side that he could look at her dead on. "If I made you think that then I'm sorry. But I never questioned anything."

"But you thought it," Emma insisted and the downward shift of his eyes told her that she was, at the very least on the right track, "I know _you_ and when that _man_ told you he knew where my parents were, you thought that whatever we have was somehow insignificant when compared to what they could give me. As if the reason they gave me up could somehow erase twenty-eight years of _not_ knowing and feeling unloved and unwanted and all that other crap I went through. As if it would somehow change who _I_ was. As if being from the same place as you, wherever the fuck that is, would somehow taint me."

"Maybe," admitted Neal, his jaw tense, "Maybe I did begin to have doubts. So what? They didn't last. Not beyond 'how the hell am I going to help you do this without risking the kids' or 'how the hell am I going to help you if I can't even stand the thought of facing my father.'"

"But that's just it, isn't it?" It felt like they had moved backwards, suddenly smack dab in the middle of the argument again, and Emma absolutely hated that, but she also couldn't stop herself. It was as if saying these things helped lift a burden that she hadn't even realized she was carrying. "We don't have to the risk our kids and you don't have to face your father. You only think that we do because you're taking some drunk lunatic at his word."

Neal's brow furrowed. "He knew things, Emma, about you and me that he couldn't possibly know."

"Yeah," Emma agreed, nodding, "and he did absolutely nothing to earn those things. Or our trust now."

There was a long pause before Neal exhaled. "You're right."

"I am?"

She looked at him critically, trying to gage if he meant that or if he was just saying that because he was as tired of the fighting as she was.

"Emma I don't regret talking to him. I regret not telling you first, I should have done it so many times, but … I needed to know what he knew. I needed to know if our family was in danger. I couldn't kick him out without getting that information first. But you're right. I shouldn't have taken everything he said on faith. Not without talking to you first."

Emma accepted his words with a sad nod, teeth biting down on her bottom lip, brows burrowing together in a question gaze. "Your father? He's really that dangerous."

Neal sighed. This heavy thing. "Yeah."

"Tell me."

"Em –" he started reluctantly.

"No," she said, "look, here's the thing. Magic is real. I get that. And no, I don't believe in this … curse _, thing._ I just … I've tried, Neal, but I can't wrap my head around it. But I believe in you. I know that now and I'm sorry that I doubted it. But now there's this whole part of you that I don't know … that I've _never_ known and as hard as it is for me to understand I _should_ be the one person you _can_ talk to about this. So help me understand. Tell me everything. I'm ready to listen now. I promise."

"Okay," he smiled lightly, tucking sweaty hair behind her ear. "You know the gist of it, really, it's just the details are different."

And, once more, they talked through most of the night.

He weaved an elaborate tale of all sorts of ridiculous things. And honestly, Emma didn't know what to make of most of it. Despite having obviously seen it, she still didn't really understand _how_ magic worked or even how it could _just_ exist. Then add in things like parallel worlds and characters from stories she had grown up actually existing and well, it made her head spin.

The oddest of them all, for example? Neal's father.

"Your father is Rumpelstiltskin?" she had questioned at the reveal, her tone a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Neal snorted, "well, wait to you hear about _your_ parents."

Any traces of amusement fell. "Don't tell me."

 _If_ August had told Neal the truth, Emma didn't want to know. She hadn't in years, honestly, and the fact the information was suddenly available did nothing to spark her curiosity.

"You never said why," he told her.

"Because I don't want to know," she said, somewhat petulantly.

"No," he said. "Why you gave up looking? You just stopped one day."

"And good thing too," said Emma flatly, thinking back to her conversation with Ashley earlier that morning. "I couldn't have done it, Neal. If I never let them go I could have never been what Porter needed."

Neal frowned. "What does that have to do with you being a good mother –"

"Everything, Neal. Because I couldn't stop thinking about what they did. Everything that one, _stupid_ decision took from me and all the things I didn't understand because of it. I didn't know about family, Neal. I barely understood love. The bigger this life inside me got, the closer I felt to him. I loved him even when I didn't want to let myself. And I couldn't understand why they didn't. It hurt and I was bitter and I needed that fresh start, babe. I mean, that's what Tallahassee was about, wasn't it."

"Yeah."

"So I put them behind me," she said, "And I don't regret it. I know what you think, Neal. Because of what August told you. But it's too little, too late. I mean, you said it yourself. That even if it wasn't your father that cast the curse, it sounded like it had his fingerprints all over it. So if it turns out that he came here to find you then could you forgive him for letting you go?"

He had told her about that too. The whole story about the portal and his father breaking his promise, letting him go. Her heart broke for him as she imagined how scary that must have been. To not only have his father choose magic over him, but to have to start over, alone, in a brand new world.

A haunted look passed over Neal's face. "No."

"We have our family now, Neal," said Emma firmly. "They come first. That's all that matters. Which," her tone switched on a dime, becoming lighter, "we need to figure out what to tell the kids. Because we have to tell them something. I can't … I hate not talking to Porter."

And lying to both of the kids would just make everything worse.

(He would have to talk to her eventually, wouldn't he?)

"He'll come around," Neal told her, sounding confident in the declaration.

"Easy for you to say," Emma muttered disgruntledly, sour over the whole thing. "He'll obviously pick you in the divorce."

Neal hadn't found this at all amusing, jaw growing tense as she tried to explain away the joke.

"You just had a very human moment, Emma, and you acted out of fear," he said, sighing after she had stumbled over an apology, "it's hard for kids when they suddenly realize their parents aren't actually superheroes."

That seemed worse, almost, but Neal agreed that they would have to tell them and just, "Save the gory details for later."

Like her parents. And Neal agreed that, if she really wanted to, they would leave that part out.

She really did.

"Some birthday, huh?" Neal murmured and Emma smiled tightly, turning, brushing her nose against his. "Wanna see if we can get some sleep before the kids start pounding on the door."

"Yeah," she murmured, curling, if possible, even further into him. Neal fell asleep almost right away, and eventually after listening to his slow, even breaths, she followed him, plagued by odd dreams of purple smoke and swirling green portals.


	8. Chapter 8

Self-doubt and blame plagued Neal often enough, usually enhanced by fear, but even at his worst Neal couldn't match the numbers Emma would do on herself when she got stuck inside her own head, her thoughts zeroing in on the negatives and worst case scenarios in a way that warped everything.

Even a decision they had made with the utmost confidence not even a day and a half ago.

"You didn't happen to remember the medicine bag, did you?" Emma asked, a guilty expression on her face as she stepped out of the bathroom, mouth still half-full of toothpaste. It was barely seven and they'd already been up for an hour, Carina knocking on the door, teary-eyed and a wet mess.

"No," Neal murmured, fiddling with Carina's ipod, which had drowned in a spilled glass of water earlier that morning. Her words, however, seemed to register because he glanced up as she spit into the sink and asked, concerned, "Why? Are you sick?"

"No," she said, rinsing off her toothbrush and stepping back into the room after wiping her mouth on a towel. "But I've miss my past two …" She finished with a vague gesture and a significant look that, Neal supposed, meant he should have no problem interpreting the code. Instead he continued to look at her blankly.

"Birth control pills," she burst out, a worried expression settling over her features. "This'll be day three."

"That was the plan, wasn't it," Neal asked, his features scrunching together in confusion, the ipod getting set aside. "We were going to –"

He shot her his own significant look.

"Well, yeah," she said sheepishly, "but I thought … well, we had that fight."

"I remember some pretty epic battles before Port was born too," Neal reminded her and he wouldn't say it, but most of them had started over some pretty petty shit. A side effect, he supposed, of several different things. Like their separate insecurities and the stress of starting a new lifestyle and, of course, not having any space of their own to retreat to when emotions got high.

Her hair suffered the effects of her guilt as she ran a brush through harshly, muttering. "Yes, but I didn't run away then."

She had wanted to though.

Instead he rescued her hair from the brush and said, somewhat flippantly, "Emma, you were barely gone for twelve hours." She sighed and Neal pressed a palm to her cheek, Emma nuzzling his hand. "I've forgiven you remember. Like you've forgiven me."

But he knew Emma would have a harder time putting this behind her. Neal could forgive and forget mostly, his anger making a loud entrance before he just sort of buried, eager to move on. But Emma held onto things, letting them fester and even when she'd say she had moved on, a seed would still linger, planting doubt. He imagined she had a thousand of those, hibernating in the back of her mind that sprouted in full force, clouding her thoughts as she tried to sort through everything that had happened in the wake of Booth's arrival, inevitably causing the situation to escalate. And while finally talking through it would have managed to trim back the weeds that had taken over, he knew it'd would be a while before Emma had complete control over what grew and what didn't.

She sighed. "Everything's different now though."

Neal leaned his forehead against hers. "Emma, look, if you don't want –"

"I do," she said quickly, the words bursting out of her in a way that caused Neal to smile. "It's not that."

"Okay then, me too," Neal murmured, grabbing her hand and pulling her over to the bed, threading their fingers together as they sat. "We had a bump, baby. The Argo hit some rough waters if you will." Emma rolled her eyes. "But I think we've only come out stronger because of it. I mean, I'd say we know each other better now, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," she agreed, her gaze focused intently on their entwined hands.

"So," he started slowly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "The different thing is that we've matured as a couple." Emma pressed her cheek into her shoulder, a slight blush creeping up her face. "I haven't changed my mind. If anything this whole thing just cemented it. I never doubted you, of course, but now I know. _Know_ that you'll do whatever it takes to protect the kids."

She was silent for a moment, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, before she looked at him. "I know too," she said intently. "That'd you'd never do anything hurt the kids. I know I said I didn't, but with everything …"

"I _know_ , Em," he told her. "I had my doubts too, remember?" She had aptly pointed most of them out. "But I came back to my senses. Because I know how this," he knocked his head lightly against hers, "works. And I knew you'd get there too. It just took a bit more space than usual."

And a good chunk of that was on him. His own stupid insecurities had pushed him into trying to control the situation, pushing Emma away so that he could tell her on _his_ terms when really he should have accepted that he'd wasted a decade and had lost that right to tell her himself.

Her lips twitched, inching up into a smile as she gave an understanding nod, but if she planned to say anything else it got cut off by an insistent knock on the adjoining door. "Yes," she said loudly, leaning back to look behind her.

Carina cracked the door open, peaking her head in. "Marmy, is Granny's open _now_?"

"It should be, sweetheart," said Emma, after she glanced at the clock. "Just give Daddy and me a minute so we can finished getting dressed."

Neal barely managed to suppress an amused snort as Carina's eyes practically half-popped out of her head in annoyed disbelief, loudly bemoaning the fact that she was starving to death as she fell back into her and Port's room. And as the door clicked shut it only took one look between them before they both fell into a fit of laughter.

* * *

Carina made a valiant attempt to order the whole menu once they made it downstairs, claiming that she was _that_ hungry, Emma nearly following suit before Neal chimed in, offering to give her a sausage link off his plate if she absolutely had to have the bacon _and_ the sausage. He even offered a wink, as if sharing a private joke, but he had sat down unhappily, chin settled on the palm of his hand, sighing heavily ever once in a while. A clear sign that he had something to say and yet ignoring Emma anytime she asked. Finally, Emma nudged him sometime after their food finally arrived, giving a discreet nod in Porter's direction.

"What's wrong, Sport," he asked quietly.

"I have a soccer game on Wednesday," Porter said poking his eggs with a fork. "And Couch Winters doesn't like it when we miss class."

Carina spoke up, her mouth full of bacon. "And I have ballet _tomorrow._ "

"We're leaving today," Emma promised, cutting into her waffles. "Soon as the car's fixed."

"That's too bad."

Neal froze, his blood running cold as he lost control of his limbs, his legs shaking beneath the table, with enough force to knock it, causing plates and glasses to teeter dangerously, Emma catching the glass of milk Carina had left too close to the edge, but knocking a mug full of hot chocolate with her elbow, his hand becoming a casualty. He just managed to suppress a pained cuss, instead hissing inward as he snatched his hand back toward his chest, Emma looking back alarmed.

"Oh, fu- _fudge_ ," she muttered, grabbing a napkin and dunking it in a glass of water, "I'm sorry, babe." She set the makeshift cloth on his hand bringing it down on the booth between them, squeezing reassuringly, before she sent a distracted a look over her shoulder. "Did you need something … uh, Mr. Gold, wasn't it?"

Neal pointedly kept his gaze on their hands. He didn't need to look to know who stood at the edge of the table, instead busying himself with mopping up the rest of the hot chocolate, Porter handing him a wad of napkins, his eyebrows furrowed together.

"Yes," he said and Neal tried to repress the urge to flinch. "And I see you've rounded out your party."

"Right," said Emma carefully, "this is my husband, John. John this is Mr. Gold."

Clever girl.

"A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Neilson," said _Mr. Gold_ and Neal might have managed what looked like a distracted nod but in reality the gesture went to Porter.

"Wanna grab some more napkins off that table for me, Sport."

"It's a shame you have to leave so soon though, Mrs. Neilson," continued _Mr. Gold_ as Porter scrambled, turning right around at his request while Neal felt Emma's hand squeeze his. Carina, for her part, had barely looked up from her plate, still stuffing her face. "It seems you've become something of a good luck charm for our little town."

Emma snorted. "Ah, yes, crashing into signs and spilling hot chocolate over poor Granny Lucas's tables. _Twice._ Regular old sign of luck there."

"I was referring to the clock tower, actually," said _Mr. Gold_ and Neal accepted the napkins from Porter, cleaning up was now a mostly invisible mess and desperately wishing Emma would find a way to wrap up this conversation. "I don't know if you heard but it started working shortly after you arrived."

Time starting again, Neal realized. Of course.

"And, of course, our mysterious John Doe awoke that very night as well," he continued and Neal blinked. "You spent some time in the local hospital shortly after arriving, didn't you?"

"Er, yeah," admitted Emma, somewhat reluctantly. "Just a check-up. We heard about John though. It's, uh, great that he woke up, really. It's, um, rare after you've been in a coma for that long."

Unless you had Emma around.

"Rare, indeed," agreed _Mr. Gold_.

"We should probably get going actually," said Emma. _Finally._ Neal had managed to busy himself with his omelet, but didn't even attempt to eat it. He had officially lost his appetite. "See if we can hurry Mr. Tillman along if we want to make it back in time for school in the morning."

"And ballet," said Carina, rejoining the conversation, her plate officially empty. That could mean a really good thing _or_ a really bad thing.

"But of course," said _Mr. Gold,_ "a proper education is a wonderful thing. I've always been particularly fond of this town's own school system myself. They hire only the finest teachers. Take Ms. Blanchard for example, both sweet and fair, always willing to go above and beyond for her children."

The words dripped with a double meaning that Neal had become all too familiar with once upon a time. And as he followed his line of sight to a mousy looking woman in the corner Neal would bet he had just laid eyes on Emma's mother.

He pulled a pen out of his jacket and, without even really trying to be discreet, scribbled something on one of the still dry napkins, passing it along to Porter.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Porter announced brightly and Carina, bless her heart, immediately echoed the sentiment. Though that probably meant they _would_ have to make a pit stop.

"And that's our cue," announced Emma, her hand sliding off his as she climbed to her feet and Neal deposited the wet napkin on his plate, pulling out a few extra bills for the poor waitress that would have to clean up their mess. "It was nice seeing you again, Mr. Gold."

"And you, Mrs. Neilson," said _Mr. Gold_. "Mr. Neilson. I can't say how refreshing it is to see a young couple that take their responsibilities so seriously."

"Thanks," said Emma carefully, smiling tightly as helped Carina into her jacket. She glanced behind her before turning on Neal. "So was that just me or were you not your usual charismatic self just now."

"We need to go," said Neal, a hand landing on Porter's shoulder, guiding him forward more than anything else.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Carina reminded them, lagging a bit, bouncing slightly as she tried to tug Emma in the other direction.

"You can go at the mechanic's," Neal murmured, lifting her easily and settling her on a hip before his hand landed back on Port's shoulder, setting a brisk pace. "Just keep walking."

" _Neal."_

"In a minute, Em," he said and he hadn't meant them to sound snappish, but Carina's outraged gasp told him that he had. But he should have _known_ . He should have realized what this place actually was. Or at least not let his guard down. Because he _knew_ how these things worked. And if a prophecy said twenty-eight, then it got twenty-eight. Never mind if the birthday girl believed in curses or had even accepted her role as savior. But as much as he should care about that, he could only focus his father. He'd imagine this moment, over and over again, one of those impossible things that played out in the back of his mind where he got to say this perfect thing about moving on.

Which, most definitely, did not involve nearly flipping the table over because he couldn't stop shaking.

Carina squirmed slightly and said, "Too tight, Daddy, I really _do_ have to go to the bathroom."

"Sorry, Care Bear," he murmured, loosening his grip somewhat, pressing his lips to the top of his head.

 _Mr. Gold_ had all of his memories. Neal would bet his life on it. His statements held a certain pointedness to them and, really, he wouldn't endure twenty-eight years trapped in one place without some sort of loophole. He also clearly wanted Emma to stay. Which meant, he had to assume, that he wanted her to break the curse. And generally, when the Dark One wanted something, he didn't care about collateral damage.

Like the car.

Or the kids.

"I'll take Carina," said Emma, lifting her out of his arms, "why don't you check in with Mr. Tillman."

She didn't seem mad. About the snapping thing. Just concerned.

Tillman shared the news that the car shouldn't take much more than an hour.

He breathed deeply, leaning back against the counter.

"Are you alright, Dad?" Porter asked, already settled into one of chairs meant for waiting customers.

Neal slumped a bit and put on a smile. "I'm fine, Port."

"I'm almost ten, Dad," he said, rolling his eyes, "I can tell when something is going on and both you and Mom have been off for days."

"We're gonna talk to you about it once we're back home," Neal promised, and when Porter raised a skeptical eyebrow that reminded him wholly of Emma, he added, "That's not a line, Sport. This just isn't the place to do it."

"Because the town's weird?" asked Porter, his legs swinging. "Or because of that creepy guy at the diner?"

"Both," said Neal, silently praising his son's observation skills. He'd do alright out in the world. "And Port, if you're mad at your mother on my behalf then you shouldn't be. She did exactly what I would have done."

What he wanted to do right now.

Porter's thirst for conversation died and he gave an exaggerated shrug but before he could push it, Carina came running out, Emma following behind. Neal stepped in her, jerking his head towards the door. "Can we –"

"Yeah," said Emma glancing at Port and Carina, who was sorting through magazine trying to fit one for her needs. "Kids. Stay put."

"I'm sorry about," he started as soon as the door shut behind them but Emma shook her head.

"Something spooked you," noted Emma and she squeezed her eyes shut. "And I feel ridiculous because I think I know who it was and it's impossible for so many different reasons –"

"It's him," Neal confirmed, taking a quick look around and, despite seeing no one, taking a step closer just in case, whispering. "That man. _Gold._ He's my father."

Emma blinked rapidly for a moment and then grabbed both his hands, squeezing as she gave him an intense look. "Are you okay?"

Honestly? "No."

Emma gave an understanding albeit somewhat distracted nod, before saying, quite practically. "Well, he didn't recognize you. And, according to Booth, he probably doesn't even know he has a son."

"He remembers," said Neal, his jaw tensing as he felt Emma squeeze his hands again. "Every single thing he said was dripping in double meaning."

Emma looked doubtful. "I think he was just making small talk."

Neal shook his head, "No. That's not how he works. Everything's a manipulation. To get what he wants. And he wants you to break the curse. It's why we can't leave the car."

Emma pressed her lips together, nodding, falling silent for a minute. "So this town?"

"Yes," said Neal darkly, his body made up of nothing but tense lines. "Destiny's a bitch."

"Well, we're leaving," she said simply, "so it didn't win."

He must have nodded a bit too frantically, because she bumped him with her shoulder and, much softer, "We're leaving. He didn't recognize you. No one's gonna touch the kids. But," she continued, her tone taking on a different sort of seriousness, "maybe you should go ahead. Take the kids home in the SUV. I'll wait on the car."

Neal pressed his lips together. "I don't wanna leave you here alone."

She let go of one of his hands, weaving her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, pressing her forehead against his. "I can see how scared you are Neal," she murmured, no trace of judgement in her voice. "So even if I only understand bits and pieces, I think we can both agree that we don't want the kids here. So take them. They need to get ready for school tomorrow anyway. They've missed too much already."

" _Emma_ ," he breathed.

She brushed her lips over his. "It won't be long."

A part of him desperately wished he could just suck it up and put his fears behind him and wait it out with Emma. If only because he knew that she didn't take the threat as seriously as she probably should. But his instincts … that old fight or flight mentality … it screamed at him to take the kids and run.

He couldn't risk the kids.

"You'll be careful?" Neal asked, looking at her intensely, urging her to see how seriously he wanted her to take this situation.

She held his gaze and said, " _Always._ "

"I'll go back to Granny's and get us checked out," he said, focusing on the soothing feeling of her thumb moving back and forth over the nape of his neck, "pack up the car and then swing around for the kids."

"You'll be alright?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, before giving in, kissing her with desperate passion, pulling back when he could feel her begin to hesitate, the public display verging on too much.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"He _didn't_ recognize you," she reminded him pointedly.

He swallowed thickly. "See you in a bit."

* * *

He had rushed through packing, gathering everything scattered throughout the two adjoining rooms at breakneck speed. Because he wanted to get out of this town as quickly as possible and he knew if he slowed down, he'd question leaving Emma behind. He'd question leaving _period._ Because innocent people lived in this town. People that didn't deserve to suffer the fate of never remembering their true selves. People who he worried about leaving to the whims of Rumpelstiltskin and whoever this yet-to-be-seen Evil Queen was. The threat _now_ , however, remained minimal. Staying, however, would heighten the risk.

And Neal _refused_ to risk the kids.

He and Emma could discuss possible battle plans later, but right now he had to focus on _their_ family.

Case in point. He hadn't even been gone twenty minutes and when he pulled back up to the mechanics, he found Emma with her shoulders stiff and a smile on her face. Which, to the untrained eye, probably looked pleasant enough. But he knew better. That was her _bitch, please_ smile. The one she wore when she wanted to keep her poker face but didn't believe a single word coming out of a person's mouth.

She hadn't plastered it on because the mechanic was trying to screw her over and never put it on for the kids (she never had, for one, and after the incident with Porter sneaking behind their back to help Carina, Emma had made a pointed effort to always come out and say when she suspected them of lying).

Someone new had joined her.

He had the door open before the tires had finished squealing to a stop, startling the composed woman who turned, looking at him, displeasure written all over her features.

"Your husband, I presume," she said, as if addressing the dirt beneath her shoe.

"John," Emma said, voice extra sweet (and fake), "this is Mayor Mills."

Neal nodded at her, somewhat distractedly as he peered in through the mechanic's window, checking on the kids, and thankfully finding what looked like Porter reading out loud to Carina.

"I was just telling Mayor Mills how nice it was for her to welcome us to town," explained Emma and as he came to stand to stand at her shoulder, noticing for the first time the basket of apples in her arms. Neal realized that, more likely than not, the Evil Queen had just found the Savior. "It's not often that a Mayor will take time out of their busy schedule to greet newcomers."

That sickly sweet tone coated deeply buried sarcasm.

"Yes, well, I wanted to see for myself what my daughter all a twitter yesterday," said Mills stiffly. "You're all she talked about. To the point that she could barely concentrate on her homework."

"You know kids," said Neal, pleasantly enough, "easily excited and all that."

"Not my daughter," she said in a way that made Neal distinctly uncomfortable and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emma narrow hers. "Of course, imagine my surprise when I discover that her new friends belong to the person responsible for damaging a historical landmark. That sign is as old as the town itself."

Neal couldn't help but frown, growing somewhat irritated at the continued treatment of kids as possessions, something he itched to respond to, but Emma's words, still pleasant, cut over him. "We'll be happy to pay damages," she said, "of course, like I told the sheriff, I'd be more concerned about the obvious wolf problem if I were you."

Mills cocked her head and, as if speaking to someone she believed to be quite dumb, asked, "I'm sorry?"

"You know, the –"

A distressed, "Marmy," cut her off and Emma's expression turned on a dime, softening into something far more sincere as she shoved the basket of apples at him, easily lifting Carina into her arms.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Emma asked her but Neal couldn't help but look at Mills, who wore an oddly pleased grin. As if she had just found her prey's weakness.

They _needed_ to go.

"I got a papercut," said Carina, holding her finger out for Emma to examine.

Porter joined them and Neal stuck a protective arm around his shoulders, pulling him against his side. "She kept stealing the magazine," he muttered.

"I wanted to see the pictures," said Carina defensively while Emma pressed an exaggerated kiss to the finger stuck under her nose.

"All better," she announced, but she kept Carina secure in her arms. "Kids. This is Mayor Mills. Your friend Etta told you about her, I believe."

Carina buried her face in Emma's shoulder and Neal distinctly remembered the comment she had made the day before.

"Good things I would hope," said Mills, her tone sweeter than the veiled politeness that she had used with him and Emma, but it still read fake to Neal. Not intentional, but more like Emma when they had first started hanging around Maya and she hadn't yet mastered the art of talking to children.

"Of course," said Emma and Neal had to run a hand through Porter's hair, pulling his head against his jacket to hide his snort. "Neal, do you, um … maybe you guys should get going. I don't want you driving on those back roads in the dark."

"You're not joining your husband," Mills asked before Neal could do more than nod and he noted a crack had appeared in her façade.

Carina lifted her head slightly, her eyes wide with concern, "Marmy –"

"I will," she said, offering Carina a reassuring, if somewhat distracted smile. Neal could practically _feel_ her discomfort with this woman poking her nose into their business. "Just as soon as the car's fixed."

"Well," said Mills, adopting an actual genuine smile, "I'll just have to speak to Mr. Tillman and see if we can get things moving along, won't I?"

She walked off with purpose, into the mechanic's and Neal didn't waste a moment. "Let's go." He dumped the apples, basket and all, into the nearest trash can before helping Emma secure the kids into their age appropriate car seats. She gave Carina a big hug and kiss, promising that she would follow right behind them and, after Neal murmured a soft, "Port," he actually wrapped his arms around his mother's neck and muttered a quiet, "I love you."

A small step but the relief in Emma's smile was palpable.

"Don't eat anything that woman gives you," said Neal after they closed the doors. "Or _Gold._ "

"Do you know –"

"The Evil Queen," he murmured in her ear following it up with a soft kiss on her lips. He didn't think he had to worry. Not about her. Not right now. She clearly wanted Emma gone, willing to do anything to pave the way for her. _But_ … He sighed. "Just be careful."

She nodded and smiled, genuine enough, but stress showed in her eyes. "And you," she said, "drive safe."

She watched, arms crossed, as they drove away.

Neal hoped for the best.

* * *

They got home sometime after dark, the kids desperately begging for food, prompting Neal to order a pizza not long after they had stumbled through the front door, before wearily climbing the stairs, desperate to get into some fresh clothes. Some clean. _Untainted._

He paused though, fingering the hand-knitted memento he had left on the bed, neglected in his haste to get to Emma and the kids as quickly as possible.

Neal had dug it out, Emma's baby blanket, sometime after she'd left. Partly because he had needed something to do (and that gave him plenty considering how often things got moved around over the years), but mostly because he had to hope that she would come back and he'd wanted to give her something that would, maybe, remind her that someone _had_ loved her enough to make that for her.

Now though, after their long talk the night before and his own _not_ reunion with his father and how awful he had handled seeing him again, Neal knew that he couldn't guide her through this. He would support her, of course and be her shoulder. Just like always. But if she got to a point where she readily accepted, even forgave her parents then she needed to do so on her own. He couldn't try and influence her decision, no matter how well his intentions were. He understood that now.

But maybe, _if_ Emma decided to accept her role in breaking the curse and that, somehow, led to a relationship with her parents, he could give it back to her. Someday.

Now though, it went back in an unmarked box, shoved in the back of the loft's overstuffed hall closet. Forgotten. Just like Emma wanted it to be.

* * *

Emma was late.

She had called, saying that she would be. Something about a complication with the car. Neal busied himself, with setting the table for dinner and then calling Lucas, checking to see if Phang could spend another night and if, maybe, it'd be alright if he took another day off tomorrow. Leo sounded concerned but didn't push and then Neal occupied himself some more, putting the kids to bed, avoiding glancing at the clock and putting on a happy face for the kids who had continued asking after their mother right up until he had tucked them into bed.

Even Porter, despite his lingering anger with Emma, asked worriedly, "Mom's coming back right?"

"Yes," Neal said significantly.

Emma would fight to get back home. He had no doubts about that. Not anymore. It was just all the things that could stop her that he worried about.

He hoped some more and finally, well after midnight, the yellow bug chugged up the driveway.

They went right to bed, Emma only taking a small detour to put some of Granny's leftovers in the fridge, before she stripped, and climbed under the covers, yawning through her goodnight as she set her glasses on the nightstand.

She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but Neal couldn't.

"Emma," he murmured, nose brushing hers, watching as her eyes fluttered open, "Baby, is it too late?"

"Too late to be awake? Yes," she murmured sleepily, eyes blinking, struggling to stay open. He shouldn't have woken her, knowing that neither of them had slept very much in the past few days, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. He had thought about it all day. The whole drive home, all through dinner, and long after he had put the kids to bed, as he waited for her to finally get home. And it was the best thing really.

"To go back on," he swallowed thickly and significantly, "you know?"

She stopped blinking, suddenly able to focus just fine as she gave him a long look.

"I don't think so," she murmured finally, "it should be fine if I just double up the next couple of days. And we should probably use a condom for the rest of the month."

"Can we?" he prompted.

"Yeah," she said, and she didn't sound disappointed, not exactly, but more like resigned. Like she had expected this. "Is this about your father?"

"I just can't Emma," he said heavily and Emma ran a hand up his arm. "There are just too many unknowns right now. I don't know if it's safe."

"Hey, I get it," murmured Emma. "He was pretty, uh … _creepy_."

"That's one word for it," he said, before he stroked her cheek absently with his thumb. "I still want to. Have a baby. It's just the timing … it's not right."

She nodded and kissed him softly. "I know. Just … try and sleep, okay? We both need it and it's another early day tomorrow."

She snuggled back into him and he tried to follow her into a slumber but for the first time in years, and despite Emma's comforting embrace, he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes, images of his father haunting his still waking thoughts.


	9. Chapter 9

Neal had turned off her alarm.

"Sleep, baby," he had murmured, his lips brushing across her forehead, "I'll get the kids off to school."

Which she appreciated because yeah, sleep had definitely turned into this fleeting thing these past couple of days. But not even an hour later Carina had bounded up the stairs, wrapping her arms around her as she stage-whispered a goodbye.

Porter didn't come up, at all.

She tried to not let that bother her, instead forcing herself out of bed sometime after hearing the sound of the car pulling out of their rocky driveway, grabbing a glass of water, suddenly remembering, with crystal clarity despite her half-asleep state at the time, the conversation with Neal the night before. She gulped down half a glass, knocking back two pills over the sink of their adjoining bathroom before climbing back into bed.

And she had meant to go back to sleep. _Really._

But when she closed her eyes, instead of sleep, tears came out instead.

She missed Porter. She missed talking to him. And maybe that seemed silly because barely three days had passed, but it _felt_ like forever. Which was on her. She had screwed up and therefore needed to carry that burden.

But that didn't make it hurt less.

"Hey," Neal murmured, the bed shifting sometime later and again when Phang decided to join them, pacing until he settled. She could feel Neal's breath, hot against her ear and Emma sniffed, ducking her head, because she was being stupid. So her nine-year-old refused to talk to her. All kids did that. But to Neal's credit he didn't comment on her complete overreaction to something as ridiculously trivial as her kid not saying goodbye to her (Porter _always_ said goodbye though). He just smoothed back her hair and Emma tried _not_ to cry, but he had started tracing patterns on her back with gentle fingers and the more she tried, the more her eyes burned and the bigger the lump in her throat got until she couldn't help it and she just turned, burrowing into his embrace, the floodgates just sort of opening, half-repressed tears turning into downright sobs.

"We're going to talk to the kids," he reminded her when she had calmed down somewhat, "right after school. First thing."

Emma wiped at her eyes with the back of her palm. "What if he doesn't …"

"He will because despite being stubborn like his mother," Emma let out a light snort, "he's also reasonable. This is as hard on him as it is on you. He's just not used to being left out of the loop."

She nodded, maybe a bit too frantically, and while the hurt still lingered (that wouldn't ease, she didn't think, until they laid everything out in the open and, hopefully, Porter embraced her without his father's prompting), she could maybe let herself believe it wouldn't last forever.

"Do you wanna talk about the rest of it?" Neal asked, stroking a finger across her still wet cheeks as she frowned in confusion. "What's bothering you because it's okay if it is, Em. A lot got flipped upside down the past few days."

She sniffed and swallowed thickly. A part of her really wanting to say no because most of what she felt she couldn't make sense of, and the tiny part of her that merely felt disappointed kept manifesting into guilt and she really didn't want to risk adding that to Neal's plate too. But they had promised. _Promised_ that they would make more of an effort. To talk about things rather than let them fester.

She nodded and let out a shaky breath. "You go first."

He sighed but didn't really hesitate. "I'm furious," he told her in this calm sort of way that seemed completely contradictory to his words.

"Me," she guessed because who else would it be, really?

"I'm not angry at you, Em," he said, "I never was."

She didn't understand that. How he could forgive her when she had done the one thing she never should have? " _Why_ though?"

"Because," he said heavily, fingers stroking up her arm, "as hurt as I was and as scared as I was that I'd never see you or the kids again, there was also a tiny part of me that was actually relieved. Because at least I knew I could count on you to never let the kids get mixed up in that shit."

"Except that I did," she muttered.

"Yeah, well, destiny's a bitch," said Neal bitterly, repeating a phrase that he had used before. And she knew, of course, that he believed in things like destiny and fate and even karma, but she had never heard him speak about it in quite those terms before this past weekend.

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, somewhat skeptically. "That I would have wound up there regardless?"

She didn't like that. It felt like her choices didn't belong to her. And if her choices didn't belong to her then what was the point of even trying.

"It's been my experience," he said slowly, and Emma got the impression that he was putting extra thought behind each word, "that certain things … things that have been foretold have a way of happening regardless of the steps that you take to avoid them. I mean," he furrowed his brow, "have you heard of self-fulfilling prophecies."

"Like Oedipus?" she asked, vaguely remembering studying him in one of her college courses.

"Exactly," agreed Neal, and he sounded almost pleased at her reference, "if they had ignored the prophecy and just raised the poor kid himself then nothing probably would have come from it, but by trying to control the situation it created the events that fulfilled the prediction."

"Which I did when I drove off," concluded Emma, but Neal shook his head.

"You're not the only one that heard the prophecy. A lot of people believed that you would break the curse on your twenty-eighth birthday," he reminded her. "And, obviously, we don't know what the thing said exactly or why everyone thought that it pointed to you. Just that they thought that it did. Prophecies, I _believe,_ set certain events in motions. Events that need to happen. That are meant to. They influence decisions, yes, whether you're trying to make something happen or avoid it, but they don't make the decisions for you."

That made sense, she supposed, and while she still felt iffy because she'd really rather nothing influenced her decisions _but her_ , Emma could, maybe, accept that her parents had made the choice to send her to this world and her freak-out had really only been her stupid inability to process things in any sort of healthy manner (which probably shouldn't make her feel better, but at least it was _her)_.

"And it still sucks obviously," he continued, as if sensing her thought process, "I wish we could live in a world where we didn't have to buy into that sorta shit, at all, but it is what it is. And I don't think it's all bad. We met obviously."

Emma raised a brow, saying dryly. "I doubt that was foretold."

"No, but it's a nice thought, isn't it?" he said, a note of nostalgia in his voice. "That for all the bad, there's something out there looking out for you too, making sure you're in the right place, at the right time so something amazing can happen."

A smile pulled at her lips. "Amazing, huh?"

"Wonderful, miraculous, _life-changing_ ," he said, pressing kisses against her cheeks and then her mouth between each word.

She scrunched her nose playfully, feeling somewhat lighter, as if a weight at started to lift. "We _have_ done pretty well for ourselves, haven't we?"

"More than," he agreed softly, but as he pressed a kiss against her nose she saw something in him shift, his eyes darkening and she understood, because she felt it too.

"That's why you're angry, isn't it?" she asked gently, following him as he rolled onto his side.

"One reason," he confirmed, watching as she looped their fingers together. "It's not fair that we have to risk our family because of someone else's feud. And seeing my dad again … it's just intensified everything. Both the anger and the hurt. And I'm furious with myself because I thought I could handle it. I _should_ be able to handle it. I mean, it's been what? Three hundred years? And –"

She had meant to cut him off and remind him that no, actually he had every right to feel the way he did and of course, it would have thrown him for a loop, seeing his father again. But then he mentioned three hundred and the words just sort of burst out of her. "You're what?"

"What?" Neal repeated before he blinked, realizing exactly what he said.

"Is that like an Enchanted Forest _thing_?" Emma asked, suddenly feeling an odd wave of panic. "Immortality?"

"No," he said quickly. "I'm aging normally now, but I got stuck at fourteen for a while. I was in Neverland. It's sorta like Storybrooke was. Time doesn't move."

"Neverland," she echoed before her eyes widened. "Oh, God. You're him, aren't you? Is that why you won't let the kids watch Peter Pan? Because you're him."

He flinched as if she had just slapped him. "I'm not him. Those movies, Em," he swallowed and made a motion above his heart. An 'x' she realized. His scar. "He did that. Some kind of sick target practice for the Lost Boys. They'd either aim true and Pan would vanish the arrow at the very last second or they'd miss and I'd get to watch their punishment. Sometimes when he was feeling really vindictive or he just wanted to hear me bow to his mastery he'd let one hit."

Emma pressed her lips together tightly and tried to think of something substantial to say but all that came out was, "Yeah, the kids can't watch those movies." He snorted darkly and Emma leaned, over kissing him softly, her hand landing over his heart. "I'm sorry, Neal, that you had to go through that."

He covered her hand and squeezed. "It wasn't all bad," he said, somewhat sheepishly, "I met the Darlings."

She brought her head down, realization reigning. "George Michael."

"George Michael," he repeated. "When I first landed in this world I was just this wide-eyed little fourteen year old. I'd never been outside my village, let alone another world. And at my lowest I climbed in through the window of this fancy house to steal a loaf of bread and got caught. But instead of turning me in, this girl, _Wendy_ , helped me."

"Did you two –" She nudged him, offering him a significant look. _Teasing,_ really, because honestly it sounded more like Port and Carina, when Porter first tried helping her.

"We were fourteen," he retorted, looking half-horrified at the concept, "and it was, like, Victorian London."

"It's not _that_ out of the question, I mean," said Emma practically, "I was fifteen when me and Sam Jennings did it in the back lot of an Arbys'."

He gave her a blank look. "I don't like that story."

She kissed him playfully, "If it helps it was awful."

He shook his head, deepening the kiss, murmuring, "First times should be magical."

Unless you didn't believe in that sort of thing and, like her, mostly just wanted to get it over with.

"You've become significantly more weirder today," she told him as she played with the hair at the nape of his neck. He snorted and ducked his head. "But you shouldn't feel guilty. Not about wanting to protect our family or wanting to wait for a baby. Not even about not wanting to see your father."

He looked, just for a moment, like he might protest. But then he sat up, leaving her feeling oddly cold, before he stuck his hand out, wriggling his fingers. "C'mon."

She grabbed her glasses and slipped them on as she let Neal lead her down the stairs. They stopped abruptly in front of Operation Hope.

The old cork board had filled out a great deal over the years, though Emma couldn't actually remember the last time she or Neal had added to it themselves. They hadn't needed to, really. Everything they needed they had and anything she could want was mostly obtainable. So it had gotten taken over by the kids. Porter putting up pictures of animals he wanted and more recently, as the travel bug hit, places he wanted to see, hike, or climb. Like the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone. Carina had slapped up a picture of Disney World and Ariel (who she wanted to meet _at_ Disney World) along with that past summer's Olympic gymnastics team holding their gold medals (Emma hadn't quite figured out if it was because she wanted to meet them or because she wanted to _be_ them one day). All of this, accompanied by the usual toys, she and Neal would systematically knock off when they did well at school or birthdays or _just because_.

Neal picked up the pen and the paper they kept next to the board, giving her a significant look. "What should we say?"

She barely had time to think about it before the phone rang abruptly and Emma grabbed it off the hook. "I'll get back to you," she told Neal, finger hovering over the talk button, because this was _more_ than just scribbling _baby_ on a piece of paper. "I wanna think about it … _Hello."_

"Hi, Emma," said a nervous-sounding girl, "this is Ashley. From Storybrooke."

Emma frowned. "Ashley? Is everything alright?"

"No, not really," she said quietly. "I tried taking your advice. About doing whatever I needed to do to get rid of the doubt and, well, I'msortainjail."

"Jail," repeated Emma. "Ashley, breaking the law is usually a last resort kind of thing."

Neal snorted and Emma swatted at him.

"This _was_ a last resort," said Ashley, her voice reaching a panicky octave, "He can't take my baby, Emma. It was stupid to sign those papers. I know that now. I was just scared and she's mine. I can feel it."

"Ashley," said Emma firmly, hoping that this would grab her attention through her panic. "Ashley, listen. No one's going to take your baby. Okay?" Neal set a bag of chips aside on the counter, his earlier grin fading from his lips. "But you have to stay calm. Your baby needs you to stay calm. Do you understand?"

Ashley took a shaky breath and then another. "Good," said Emma. "That's good. And if you start to panic again, keep doing that. We're just going to take this one step at a time. Is there anyone in town that you can call? To come bail you out?"

"You," said Ashley pointedly, her voice reaching that high octave once more.

"I'm back in New York, Ashley," said Emma calmly and Neal's brow furrowed as he mouthed _Storybrooke._ Emma pressed her lips together, nodding as Neal ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I promise, I'll help you, but I won't be able to get there until tomorrow. What about the father?"

"Sean?" Ashley said and then, "No."

"Never mind. I'll figure something out," she said, waving this off. She'd call Ruby or something. She could always pay the waitress back later. "Now though, Ashley, I need to know what happened exactly?"

"I thought, maybe, if I could steal the contract back from Mr. Gold –" Well, fuck. Emma bit her lip, glancing at Neal who had started listening to the conversation intently, arms crossed. "But he caught me and I sorta pepper sprayed him. I was gonna leave but Sheriff Graham caught up to me before I could make it out of town."

"Okay. That's okay," she said quickly. "Ashley, if I call someone to come bail you out, I want you to promise me that you won't skip town, okay? Because that contract you signed. It's not going to mean anything if you've changed your mind."

"He gave me money," said Ashley helplessly.

"Doesn't matter," said Emma, "the worst the courts can do is make you pay him back. And usually they don't. The law is on your side here, Ashley."

"Yeah, but I –" started Ashley helplessly.

"It doesn't matter, Ashley," she said, "this is what I do for a living, okay. I know your rights. I know the loopholes. I _can_ get you out of this and I will. But if you run, you will make things worse for yourself. So I need you to promise me that you will stay put."

"Okay," she said, but it didn't exactly inspire any confidence in Emma.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good," said Emma, smiling tightly. "Now I'm gonna see about getting you out of there. Remember what I said. Stay calm and, maybe, send a menacing glare at Sheriff Graham for me."

"Yeah," said Ashley and Emma thought, maybe, she heard the first hints of a smile. "Thank you, Emma."

Emma smiled sadly. "Anytime, Ashley."

She hung up and silence fell over the kitchen until finally, Emma broke, "I have to help her, Neal –"

"Of course you do," agreed Neal and no signs of reluctance or judgment lingered in his tone. "We'll drive up tomorrow. See if Lucas and Saffron can take the kids after school."

Immediately, Emma shook her head. "No, Neal. Me. I drive up there tomorrow. You stay –"

"Absolutely not," he shot back.

"This is for work, Neal," said Emma, "There's no reason for you to be there."

"Try that one again, Emma," said Neal, as Emma pulled out the leftover Granny sent home with her the day before hoping, maybe, that she could find a number somewhere on the bag. "And maybe with a bit more honesty this time."

She turned, staring at him, a helpless expression on her face as Neal's jaw tensed and he nodded in sudden understanding.

"The him … the guy trying to take her baby?" he said darkly. "It's my father, isn't it?" She nodded, somewhat reluctantly and his nostrils flared. For a second, he looked like he might hit something. "Son of a bitch."

"I'm sorry, Neal." She set the bags off to the side and reached forward, but before she could do so much as brush his shoulder, he stepped back, frantic energy sending him pacing.

" _That_ , Emma, is why I have to go with you," he said angrily, "He's using this to lure you back."

"We don't know that," said Emma practically. "Ashley did break into his shop."

For a moment, Neal almost looked impressed, before he sobered and stepped forward, looking at her quite seriously. "That's not how he works. Everything's a manipulation, Emma. He's using this situation to his advantage."

"Okay," said Emma, accepting that. "But you still can't go." And when he looked ready to argue again, she pressed a finger to his lips. "No, Neal. I get it. You're angry and you're worried and you want to protect me, but I have to think about Ashley and what's best for her and I can't risk you getting in the way because you have issues with your father."

And, maybe, if they were going off the premise that the curse was real and Gold and Mills were as dangerous as Neal seemed to think, she didn't want to risk the both of them. They couldn't risk doing that to the kids. Just the thought of it was unacceptable to her.

"I won't get in the way then," said Neal but while it was very clear that he was trying to make himself _look_ calmer, everything about him still screamed desperation. "But I should be there."

"You should be here," murmured Emma, stepped forward, her hands caressing his jaw, fingers then weaving into the hair at the nape of his neck. "With our children. And you don't have to worry because this is my job and I know what I'm doing." She gave a modest shrug. "Sometimes I'm even pretty good at it."

"That's the thing, Em," said Neal, "this town. It doesn't play by the rules. Not the ones you know. My father especially."

Emma shook her head. "He's gonna have to, Neal, because I'm not gonna give him a choice."

Neal pinched the bridge of his nose. "Baby, Emma, this isn't … you don't know anything about that world … about magic."

"Maybe that's a good thing," said Emma, adding pointedly, "Maybe that's the point."

"If the point is people like my father trying to take advantage of you then yeah, I agree."

"Except I _know_ , Neal," she reminded him. "I _know_ about the curse."

"A curse that you only _maybe_ believe in," he said.

"Doesn't matter," she said, waving this off, "Because I _know_ who he is. And I know to look out for Mayor Mills. And I _will_ be careful, Neal. I get that you're worried. That you think I don't take the curse seriously enough or whatever. But you can at least trust that I take my job seriously and that I want to do right by this girl."

Neal sighed, closing his eyes. "You shouldn't have to do this alone."

"My job?" retorted Emma lightly, "Yes I do."

"You know what I mean," he muttered.

And yeah, she did. Emma understood exactly where Neal was coming from because, maybe, she wanted to do the same for him. And the kids. She didn't understand the curse, not really, and she had no idea of how to break it (apparently savioring didn't come with a cursebreaking handbook), _but_ if she got calls like this, drawing her back to Storybrooke, than she could at least do one the one thing she desperately hoped she never failed at. Protecting her family.

She leaned forward, kissing him gently, before murmuring, "This is the way it has to be."

Neal didn't quite meet her eyes, his focus on the floor intense, his lips parted as guilt and worry and fear flooded his features. And while she hated that agreeing with her … adhering to _her_ wishes would inevitably weigh on him, Neal's mind a hotbed of guilt, she couldn't back down from this. Their situation sucked beyond the telling of it, but this, going at things alone, remained the only way she knew how to get out of it with the least collateral damage.

"Hey," she said, her voice thick with unsaid emotion even as she put on her best, fake smile. "I think I know what I want."

She grabbed a piece of paper and, written out in her somewhat messy scrawl (after pausing every so often to remember the exact wording), she gave to Neal to read:

 _"May this home be blessed with the laughter of children, the warmth of a close family, hope for the future, and fond memories of the past."_

Neal managed to meet her eyes finally, "It's beautiful, Emma. You came up with this?"

Emma snorted. "Does that sound like something I would come up with? No. Foster home number," she scrunched her nose in thought, "five had it pinned to the wall somewhere." Ironic because, like most of the places she had wound up, it embodied the exact opposite. "I remember looking at it and thinking what a bunch of crap."

She saw the beginnings of a smile, the corners of Neal's eyes crinkling with amusement. "Right? But I get it now. Why someone would want that on their wall, cliché as it may be. I want out children to always be happy and loved and safe." She stuck her thumb at _Operation Hope,_ "I want them to always dream big and when Porter rescues all the abandoned animals in the world and Carina wins her gold medal, I'd hope they look back and think – _'hey, I'm doing pretty well now, but I had it pretty good as a kid too.'_ "

Because she and Neal could say that, never mind how far they've come. "But that town, Neal, it'll poison that. It already has. That's why you have to stay here, babe. We have to protect _this,"_ she pinned the quote to the board, "as long as we can."

Even if it meant splitting up and going against the way they always did things: Together.

* * *

Finally, they managed to sit Porter and Carina down, telling them a watered-down version of everything over milk and homemade brownies. She and Neal had two whip-smart kids, Porter catching onto the fact that fiction in their world played out like reality in the Enchanted Forest (though Neal insisted, going as far as to make it a _Rule_ , that the kids shouldn't necessarily believe everything they read), while Carina quickly deduced, after a vague comment about her and Neal discovering that they had discovered an unexpected connection, that Emma had come from that world too. Porter, thankfully, shared in his mother's skepticism over this whole unplottable town thing, wondering why, exactly, no one had found Storybrooke yet, while Carina had taken a vested interest in whether mermaids, and more specifically Arial, actually existed.

(According to Neal they did.)

They told them about the curse and her role in breaking it. The kids, much like their stubborn father, desperately wanted to come, claiming their ability to help before deflating when Emma reminded them they had school.

They did their best to not raise any alarms, refusing to pass the full extent of their fears onto their children, though they did express the need for caution. Neal emphasized that magic wasn't always good, something Porter had already learned from his beloved books ("I've read Harry Potter, Dad."), while Emma insisted that they should never talk to a man named August (who might go by Pinocchio.)

Both reminded them that they couldn't tell anyone. Because despite a cursed town in the middle of Maine, magic didn't exist in this world (well, except for her, she supposed) and so sharing would likely cause more harm than good.

The kids took it better than she had, Porter even finding a reasonable excuse for her actions ("Because the hero _always_ refuses the call at first."), forcing Emma to explain that no, actually, fear and confusion had driven her away, a comment met with an exasperated eye roll because apparently she didn't read enough books. They _believed_ , though Emma couldn't quite tell how much they actually understood.

For one, Porter's attempts to draw lines between his books and that town worried her, Emma fearing that he would get an idealistic view of what was not a very glamorous role. But, in his own child-like way, he seemed to at least understand why things had escalated the way they had over the weekend (he had jumped to the wrong conclusion, fearing she and Neal would get a divorce). He didn't even protest when she came in to say goodnight and when she settled on the edge of his bed, he nestled into her side as she wrapped her arms around him.

"I _am_ sorry," started Emma, combing her fingers through his hair, "about this weekend."

"I know, Mom," said Porter, tone bright and understanding.

"And I want you to know that it won't happen again," she stressed, looking at him quite seriously, "I made a mistake. I know that now. We're working on it too. Your father and I. Telling each other everything so things don't spiral like they did."

It felt important to tell him that. Emma firmly believed (and Neal agreed) that, even though grown-ups didn't necessarily need to tell kids _everything_ , they didn't have to dumb things down for them either. It was about knowing their children and what they could and couldn't handle. So while she and Neal did feel a need to shield Porter and Carina from the messy, terrifying details of Neal's (and even her's) childhood, that didn't mean they sheltered the kids from all the imperfections of the world. Not so long as it was age appropriate and didn't take away from their ability to find the beauty and hope of it all.

They were like Neal that way.

"Why didn't Dad tell us?" Porter asked. "About the Enchanted Forest?"

"I don't think it's something he really likes to talk about," admitted Emma, before biting her lip, "and probably because he knew I wouldn't understand."

"You do mix up Spiderman and Superman with a surprising frequency," noted Porter, causing Emma to snort as a wide, teasing grin spreading across his features.

"Yeah, yeah. Poke fun," muttered Emma with fake disgruntlement before she sobered, nudging Porter. "And about what you said. About me taking you in a divorce. I never want you to worry about that. I would never keep you or Carina from your father. Okay?"

Porter nodded.

Emma smiled and pressed a fervent kiss to his forehead. "Good," she murmured, "now get some sleep. You've got school in the morning."

She climbed off the bed, tucking the blankets up around him as he scooched down. "Mom?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"You'll be careful, won't you?" he asked, gaze suddenly intense. "When you go tomorrow. You'll be careful."

" _Always_ ," said Emma, smoothing back his hair as she added, "This thing tomorrow? It's just like the people I work with everyday. Nothing for you and Care to worry about. We're gonna take this curse thing a day at a time. No more. No less."

Mostly because they had no conceivable idea how to break it. But whatever.

"Kay," murmured Porter, "love you."

Relief coursed through her and she pressed another kiss to his forehead. "I love you too. Sleep tight."

It worked miracles. Hearing those words from Port. Seeing him smile. Hearing him joke with her. And while she knew that, like any parent-child relationship, they would have their bumps along the way, she still hoped that they would always get back to that good place.

Later, long after they had put the kids to bed and locked up for the night, Neal wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him. "Better?"

"Better."

And it was. They had a long way to go until they got back to the near blissful happiness of less than a week ago, but right then her children were safe, snug in their beds and they had finally gotten everything on the table – with Porter and Carina, but between her and Neal too. And right then, she couldn't ask for more.


End file.
